We Are Augustines and Admiral Fallow - Next Big Thing?

Londoners have been besieged by cold for a week now. It may seem silly to whinge about cold in London of all places, however after our delightfully temperate winter we were not prepared for the frostiness to come. Before last week I had not double scarved or stockinged once, and now I am festooning myself with woollies every time I step outside.

And so, with chattering teeth and blue lips, we descended into the chilly gullet of Borderline just of Charing Cross Road to witness two hopeful Next Big Things. But by the time we had wrapped a raw paw around an over priced cider the cockles of our hearts were being warmed by the folky arrangements of Admiral Fallow. A wonderful Glaswegian indie outfit, with a delightfully sweet sound which is rounded by flutes, clarinets and tambourines, their sweet sounds soon flushed my cheeks and brought the feeling back to my toes as I began to tap them. Perhaps it’s a peculiar pleasure of mine, but I really love being able to hear a singer’s accent in their singing, and singer/songwriter Louis Abbott sounds so delightfully Scotland, he makes me miss my wonderful Scottish family. With his big bushy beard it is somewhat surprise that any of his singing actually reaches us, however it does, and this melodic voice combined with his sort of jerking motions about the stage, and humorous self-deprecation between songs, made for a very likable character. They ended with an acoustic version of Four Bulbs, which was absolutely exquisite and gave me the shivers I had managed to shed half an hour before.

So if you like Mumford and Sons, Noah and the Whale and the like, then Youtube these guys because they are a real treat.

Nicely warmed by the folkstars the crowd headed to the bar to replenish drinks before returning to their spots, determined to secure a good view for the main attraction. We, like many, were there to see We Are Augustines. From New York city, I last saw them in December where they blew me away with a free gig at The Wheelbarrow, and I was anxious that they should show me that same power again. For a three piece band (guitarist Billy McCarthy, bassist Eric Sanderson and drummer Rob Allen), they make a helluva lot of noise – it seems like there should be ten of them up there – and by the end of their performance you do indeed feel that they have nothing left to give, they are sweating and messy and spent, it’s wonderful to watch. With a slightly bigger stage available to them at The Borderline, their show was a lot more physical, with McCarthy flinging himself about the place, careening into mic stands and amps and his band mates, performing with the same passionate that he channelled to write his music. The Augustine’s album, Rise ye Sunken Ships, is based largely around events leading up to the death of McCarthy’s brother who suffered with drug problems and schizophrenia, and every performance seems to be soaked in the desperation and pleading of that period so that each song is emotionally charged. As my friend Tim (an ace BS detector) said: ‘I detect no Bullshit here’. Their live set seemed almost painfully honest, driving home the songs on the album with an edge of anxiety that cannot be faked.

But despite the heavy issues dealt with on Book of James and their other songs, they do not stray from the making of solid Rock ‘n Roll. Stuff that makes you bop and bounce and lash about. They sweat, and demand that the crowd do. Songs that sounds quite calm on the record are thrashed out, whipping the audience into a frenzy. They follow in the footsteps of Bruce and Tom Petty – great songwriters putting together great music with pounds upon pounds of passion. Needless to say by the end of the gig, we were well warmed up.

Listen to these guys if you like The Gaslight Anthem, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, or Bruce Springsteen.

Long live Queen

Sorry about the crappy photo it was taken with my phone

Music has always coloured every era and every experience for me. From my earliest memories there is a soundtrack strumming in the background of everything I have seen, done, felt. Those who grow up with music can never be cured of the addiction. We need to be surrounded by sound in all that we do.

When I was a mini there was music everywhere - we listened to that radio on the way to school in the mornings, and alternated between Rod Stewart and Neil Diamond in the evenings, so that I travelled home with Maggie May and sweet Caroline. Weekend mornings the house was filled with Abba and The Beatles, Crowded House, The Rolling Stones and Led Zepplin. My dad told me tales of Elvis and Pavarotti, my auntie indocrintated me for hours with Bruce Springsteen and Tom Petty, and my cousin made a shrine for Guns and Roses. I chose Kylie Minogue and Jason Donovan for myself in the early years, and later Alanis Morissette, The Cranberries and Nirvana.

But growing up the main source of music, and what it meant, was at parties. My mum had a riot of ridiculous and wonderful friends whose thirties were their glory days. On the weekends the gardens and bedrooms of suburban homes would be crawling with children hiding and seeking, chasing and catching, playing and squabbling, while downstairs the 'adults' cranked the tunes and let the good times roll.

Parties would start with Roxette, Bryan Adams, Bon Jovi, and then roll on to Dire Straits, were air guitar was obligatory. Fleetwood Mac and The Beach Boys would jostle for air time with Roy Orbison and Chuck Berry, and mixed CDs of greats would have you taken from Eric Clapton to Bob Marley in minutes.

And just when everyone should have been going to bed, the night would kick up a gear as a theatrical thrill poured out of the speakrs and made its way through the house - someone had found the Queen catalogue.

Freddie Mecury's voice has a hypnotic quality - all in its thrall are immediately turned into pouncing, posing, mincing, majestic rock stars. It's (a kinda) magic - there is no stopping it. Suddenly you are all platform heels and glitter, feather boas and operatic delivery, you are Brian May's 'fro and his electric guitar. Confidence flies through you harder than any line of cocaine and you are strutting and pouting through every song. This is the power of Queen.

They are part of a select group of bands whose songs I knew every word to before I could possibly be expected to understand what they were singing about. I heard them through walls when I was supposed to be sleeping, I crept down stairs to listen to them when parties had exploded. Watching the peculiar and fantastic dancing it inspired I longed to be part of the rock 'n roll tribe my parents and their friends had all been initiated into. There is no party Freddie can't fix, no mood he can't soften.

And so with this emotional attachment to Queen, this belief that they are mine, that they were a birth rite, I went to see Stormtroopers in Stilettos. The exhibition was set up in a warehouse just off Brick Lane and was an installation piece with a space dedicated to each of Queens first 4 albums.

It was wonderfully executed, a multi media indulgence in the extreme, with video, audio, photographs, letters, costumes, quotes from Queen members and other musicians. It was immersive - as though you had slipped back into their sequinned, irreverant, ridiculous world for a little while. In the beginning you read tales of Freddie just hanging around this fringes of the hipster/glam rock scene, watching Hendrix night after night all over London, sewing all his own costumes and singing at student parties. Imagining that life made me want to trade everything in for a flat in Shoreditch and a pocketful of rhinestones.

As you move through the space you are aware of their music developing, they draw more and more on the theatre that would become their trademark, experiment with every type of rock, and you listen as Freddie gains the confidence and depth in his voice that Rock hasn't seen since.
The exhibition it beautfully and lovingly put together, by people who obviously new and loved Queen and their music. There is so much to read, to watch to absorb I wish I had gone more than once and taken more time. Its a sensory treat for anyone, but for a real fan its a feast of information and a window into a band (and a time) gone. I left feeling full and overwhelmed by their magnitude, but also very sad that I could never see them in all their live glory. Long live Queen!

City Image of the Day - Layers

Spotted off Brick Lane

Okay at first glance it just looks like a pretty stern face, a large and quite talented rendering but so what... Well this has been made completely from peeling away layers of posters that were once on this wall to create a picture. I know?! The artist has added nothing, but purely by peeling away has managed to create this image... Awesome!

Francesca's Secret Kitchen

London has a secret. It's called underground dining. For the last two years people all over London have been holding what could be described as a mix between a dinner party and a restaurant. I have been slightly tardy at getting in on the trend but now that I have I am convinced.

Having heard rave reviews of Francesca's Secret Kitchen (one friend described it as being transported back to the era of The Great Gatsby) we decided that this was where we would start our underground dinner party adventures. Francesca's Secret Kitchen is run by two Francescas. It is hosted in one of their houses, and basically you email to reserve a booking, they serve up to 20 people an evening, and host about twice a month. You are served a four course meal and the suggested 'donation' is £30.

After an early false start, last Friday my dearest girlfriends and I braved the chill and frost and headed to Camden to Francesca's Secret Kitchen. Having never been I really wasnt sure what to expect, but as we were ushered over the threshold I saw that we were basically coming into a home, albeit a beautifully decorated one. Warm, and lit by the glow of scores of candles, our dinner tables had already been set, each one with different linens, and those who had arrived before us were mingling in the observatory. The house was cluttered (in a most pleasant way) with meaningful objects from all over the world. The design aesthetic consistes of a meaningful, rather mismatched bric-a-brac, a delightful shambles of sentimental pieces collected over a time. A huge wall in the observatory was taken up by books and knick knacks, photos and postcards. The bathroom (just a little guest loo) was wallpapered with crazy wall paper covered in leaves and monkeys (?!) with a wall dedicated to travel books and ornamental pineapples - just the right amount of whimsy for me.

After a precursory drink we headed to our tables. Some tables were mixed with more that one group, creating a really relaxed non threatening environment to meet new people. We had brought our own wine, and so as the bottles were opened everyone began unwinding from the weeks stresses as we tucked into the first course of pulses soup with mushrooms. I am not the biggest fan of soup but this was truely extraordinary. In fact at one point I thought Tiff was going to get into the bowl with the soup. The next course was roasted peppers with a tuna sauce - the low point in an evening of culinary brilliance.

Away from the buzz of a restaurant and the annoying hovering of a waiter, dinner with friends is a lot more relaxing. Conversation flowed, uninhibited by the gentle hum of the other diners, as we were served our main course. Beautiful beef stewed in red wine, served with polenta, it was the most glorious adaptation of traditional South African pap and vlies, and was the subject of much hilarity as Tiff continued to refer to it as beef and 'placenta'.

Dessert was a refreshing orange tarte served with chocolate ice cream, and followed by espresso and mint tea.

The evening was certainly a success. It was lovely to have the intimacy of a dinner party without the inevitable rushing off of the host every moment to deal with some new emergency in the kitchen. There's also something pleasantly voyeuristic (in an non seedy way) about going into the home of someone you don't know and seeing how they live - especially when they live so beautifully. My anticipation had been of more interaction with the hosts, however their absence just allowed everyone to get on with it. So, thank you to the Francesca's for opening up their home and feeding us so well. If you are interested in having dinner at Francesca's look here.

November

The city life is starting to grate on me, and I can feel this South East Asia break is more necessary than ever. However, I have had a little boost this month, as I cannot deny that London is a wonderful place to live come November.

As it get's colder, people gladly reach for new coats, boots and scarves, and for a while the cold feels like a novelty, and red noses and cheeks flushed with chill are endearing. The first morning I saw my breath I shivered with excitement and was glad for my new multi coloured mittens as I crunched purposefully over the first sprinkling of frost on the grass. The delicate dusting of frost is not the only beauty nature offers us in November. She also gives as the rusts, reds and russets of autumn, the leaves turning before they drop off the trees and cushion the pavement in a rustling carpet. The colours are a show I missed out on live in the wonderful but steady climate of Durban for most of my life. Now the foliage fills me with wonder as I whizz past it on busses and trains, and I find myself picking up fallen leaves on my way home, and finding them crushed and crumpled days letter in my pockets.

November air carries the non threatening scent of gun powder as fireworks light up the skies in flares of celebration. This year it threatened rain, as usual, but people turned out in hoardes on Clapham Common for an impressive show. My brother Rory laughed as I Oohed and Aahed at the pops and bangs. Fireworks fill me with that wonder that gets harder to hold onto the older you get. They are magical, and incomprehensible for an artistic soul like myself who has no knowledge of the endless possibilities of Chemistry.

And so, I love November - despite the corporate crappiness of early onset Christmas, with every coffee chain printing red ribbons on their cups and stores exploding in tinsel in early October, I am still somewhat entranced by the twinkly lights adorning Oxford Street and Regent Street. I look forward to the mulled wine and mince pies and mistletoe that accompanies this beginning of winter, and despite the cold I am glad I live in London.

Where thou art, that is home - Emily Dickinson

Over a month without a post - pitiful I know! Lame excuse, but life has been pretty crazy busy over the last month, and mainly due to a gypsy relocation - that's right me and my little caravan got all packed up and moved house. And what a painful process moving always is - lucky it is a lot like child birth in that you forget how hideous it is as soon as the last box is unpacked, otherwise we really would never move house again, and they would be taking me out of my current abode in, well, a box.

I find that, without fail, halfway through every moving process I vow to never buy another thing I can not consume, and contemplate leaving the rest of my crap to the next poor occupier, as I push seldom worn clothes and never read books into straining cartons. As per usual, I found long lost (and forgotten) socks and hair pins coexisting peacefully in the forest of hair and dust swirling under my bed. Down sofas were a myriad of lighters and pens - both items long thought to be extinct in our house hold, and behind bookshelves a singular bauble or Quality Street - remnants of a festive season long passed. Successful packing I find starts with sorting everything by type, ensuring that books are in one box, toiletries in another, a bag for shoes etc. However towards the end I always find there are items that missed their boxes sealing that now end up in an ever increasing pile of jumble that I no longer want or need. But as I have already packed its mate in another box, or promised it to someone who has failed to collect it I know I am going to have to make the ultimate moving error - a miscellaneous box. Filled with batteries that may or may not be flat, long obsolete phone chargers, mismatched earrings and forgotten coffee cups. I know the likelihood is that it will move with me, unopened, into eternity.

Unpacking, for me anyway, is a far happier prospect - I love rediscovering my possessions in a new environment. Putting pictures on walls, and loading shelves with trinkets gives old mementos a new lease on life. This move was even more exciting than usual - for I was moving from a room reminiscent of Harry Potter's cupboard under the stairs into an Olympic sized boudoir. My double bed, swaddled in layers of violet, lavender and plum, seems endless and I can lay in it for hours enjoying my fourth floor view of Mary Poppins-esque London chimneys. I revel in the fact that it takes me more than four steps to cross to the door, and I have so much cupboard space (comparatively) I am tempted to store one cardigan per shelf. The paint is peeling around the windows, the carpets probably witnessed the days of Thatcher and I am not mad for cream walls, but none of it matters - it's huge and it's mine! Home, for the moment, is certainly where my heart is.

Ribbon and Thread - Day 12, Whatever Tickles Your Fancy

My fancy is always tickled by the awesomeness of Etsy. I can get lost in its quirky, creative pages for hours on end. If you want to feel that this global village is a little smaller, then all you need is a little smaller then all you need to do is order something from one of its variety of sellers - you will receive service beyond anything you would expect from any local store. I have yet to receive a piece from a blessed etsy seller that was not originally (and beautifully) packaged, with a personalised note - long live customer service and the human touch.

And so I would love to invite you to meet (and browse the wares of) my new favourite etsy seller: Ribbon and Thread. I am a huge fan of the handy canvas holdall and own a varied collection myself - cute, good for the environment, better than the crappy old plastic packet - Bags for Life are the way forward, and this stylish collection is too good to turn down. Hand made (with much love) by my dear friend Bridget, each one is hand painted with unique designs. The totes are trendy, arty and well made. Being, sadly, artistically mediocre at best myself, I marvel at what Bridget produces. Next payday I will be putting in my order (I am a sucker for the London print) and I urge you to do the same - the fun Bubble design for a friend to haul around her vintage shopping finds, the sneaker design for a college student's book bag, or one of the birds for Nana's knitting.

Global Graffitti - Day 9, A Photo(s) That You Took

Whenever I go away somewhere I always look for the local street art. I love the spontaneity and unexpectedness of it. I love how in some cities it feels natural and blends in with the great architecture and dilapidated buildings, having every right to be there. I love the fact that great street art gets imitated by artists and marketers alike, and that it owns the spaces it fills and reflects the people that live there. And so here are a collection of street art pictures that I have taken here in London and on my travels. Hope you like them:

Rad Stencils off Tottenham Court Road

Poodle found astray in Shoreditch

Space Invader in Covent Garden

Roller Pig in Barcelona

Green Lady Paste Up in Berlin

Graffittied Section of the Berlin Wall

Donkey - a symbol of Barcelona

Femme Fatale stencil in Berlin

City Image of the Day

The debuting of a new feature... Since I got my darling iPhone, I find that more often I stop to take a quick snap of some fancy or perculiarity in this beloved city... I then post it on that book of faces, or MMS it to a pertinent friend or something, and so I have decided to post a few of these random snaps here intermitently.

So ther first one to be posted I took on Monday this week. I was on my way home, walking past our local florist and as I passed by imagine my delight when I looked into the truck parked outside and saw these shelves of perfect flowers. Stacked up like that they reminded me of towels in a linen cupboard, smelling all fresh and clean. Lovely blocks of colour, textured by the petals. So pretty...

Elephants on Parade

One of the highlights of this here London summer that we have been having are the herd of elephants that colonised our fair city. Called the Elephant Parade it was a wildlife welfare project to benefit the Asian Elephant, who sadly is very seriously endangered.

Over 250 elephant sculptures, decorated in a variety of ways by everyone from famous designers to children, were displayed around London, outdoors, in areas where Londoners and tourists could actually interact with them. They were richly designed and beautifully decorated and they really became a part of the cityscape. Children climbed on them, at lunch time we sat on their plinths and ate our sandwiches, at time I orientated myself by them, and whenever I was in an unfamiliar area I found myself having a little hunt for a new one I hadn't seen before.

The process was that they were among us for a few months, and then they were removed away to a field and auctioned off to the highest bidder, having raised funds and awareness. And alas now they have been taken off to their new homes and London is left feeling rather forlorn as we wander past the spaces the colourful beasts once filled.

Dr Sketchy's Anti Art School

"...and clover being green is something I've never seen, 'Cause I was born to be blue."

I would never have thought of putting burlesque and cabaret performance together with sketching, but I sure am glad they did. Welcome to Dr Sketchy's Anti Art School. One part performance, one part art, one part cider - three of my favourite things. To be honest I really couldn't be sure what to expect when Bridget and I made our way over to the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. The outing was Bridge's birthday present from me. Bridget is a talented, if a little out of practice, artist, whereas everything I draw ends up looking like I did it with my feet.

And so we arrived, rather expectantly, got our drinks and got settled. Our host for the evening was a slim, elegant gent with a beautifully cut suit and enviable eye make-up named Dusty Shadows. He explained that Dr Sketchy was started in New York, where it was taken very seriously by budding artists and graphic designers. In London it tends to consist of a bunch of tipsy amateurs more there for giggly doodling than any serious artistic pursuits. This suited us fine.

Dr Sketchy has all range of models and performers that grace their stage. At this session we

were treated to the Blue Lady, styled as Vladimir Tretchikoff's 'Chinese Girl' she sang old standards about 'being blue'. Her sulky, velvet voice couldn't be taken seriously when paired with splendid blue face paint as she drawled "...and clover being green is something I've never seen, 'Cause I was born to be blue." She posed for us, but I managed somehow to draw her looking like Miss Piggy?! And while Bridge's drawing's got stronger as we went along, mine some how managed to get weaker, and by the time we move on to sketching a camp, cabaret singing cowboy called Mr Meredith, my 'art' had stopped resembling anything remotely human.

The whole evening was a different experience, a stand out event in my week. While I became more aware that my artistic skills are somewhat lacking, I realised that I still very much enjoy trying to draw. And so my dear Bridget and I are looking forward to our next visit, and hopefully soon I will do something that is at least passable enough to post!

African Rain

London was steamy for two days. Heat radiated off the cities sea of concrete edifices, and it slowly baked itself. Dew faced commuters shoving onto trains on Monday morning were still cheery in these first tropical days and at lunch bankers and bus boys alike peeled themselves of clothes like bananas and worked on turning their milky tea skin into something more mocha. I went to work as drippy as everyone else, and as cheerful, but slowly wilted heading towards lunch and lay under a tree instead of attempting to get myself anything other than alabaster.

As I toiled, computer bound, towards early evening and its promise of water beaded beverages and barbecues, I couldn't help but feel there was something else I was looking forward to...

The heat continued to close in over me as I rode home on a train that would be more aptly described as a fast moving sauna. English summer nights are long, and walking home at seven the sun still rode high and proud in the sky, and I noticed there was not a cloud marring the perfect blue. And that's when I realised... All the heat and pressure was not building to anything. And I was shocked - because in Durban right now the air would be filled with a crackle of a promise, as an electrical storm gathered its powers from god knows where and prepared to unzip the heavens and pour down buckets of strong, life affirming, drenching rain. You can feel the moment approaching, as the air thickens and begins to jump with electricity, and suddenly the sun bleached sky darkens, and the clouds gather and with a crack visibility disappears as the deluge begins.

People shut doors and windows against the ricocheted spray, others dive for cars and verandas as the rain pummels the tin roofs over head. An umbrella is useless against it. We don't even own them - we know to instantly give in and not fight this, take cover. An instant torrent rages down roads and out of storm drains, and everything from flowers to kids perk up as they are given brief respite from the ravages of the day's heat.

I refuse to believe that it is not an inner fight for every person to stay out of that rain. I have often given up wrestling with myself and dashed out from under cover to dance in the rain. The sort of rain that soaks you in seconds, so that your hair becomes slick dreads and your lashes starfish and your eye-liner melts away with all the dust of the day.

And so while my sun blushed skin revelled in the beginning of a London summer, it also missed the tropical mad fury of a momentary African storm, and its ability to wipe the slate clean.

Udderbelly

I love silly! Silly is not stupid, silly is not self conscious, silly is irreverant, silly is not subtle, silly is childlike, silly is fun and funny, silly is necessary to cope. I love silly! And what is sillier than a purple cow? I'll tell you what is sillier... An upside down purple cow, that is in fact a tent! Yes this summer the Udderbelly tent has landed on Southbank and brought with it much ridiculousness and Pimms and cider - all such good things. Outside the tent is a glorious little cider garden, complete with picnic benches, umbrellas and foosball. The setting is perfect, with a view of the London Eye and the Houses of Parliment, and of course many vitamin D starved sun worshippers cripsing themselves rather revealingly in the first watery rays of the English summer - but what would a London sumer be without pink Poms (she says, rather pink herself).

One happy birthday kid

My lovely friend of Charlotte has had a week of Birthday celebrations (as you should) and we ended these off on Friday with a good splash of summery beverages in the shade of said purple cow. Charlotte is silly, in the best way, and looked totally at home among the cow print, astroturf and udders. A variety of comedy shows will be held inside great violet belly well into July, so try and catch one, I am gonna...

Covent Garden - the Centre of my London

Covent Garden has long been the heart of my particular London. Every time I return to London it is one of the first places I visit to prove to myself that I am back.

There are so many aspects to Covent Garden. I love the street performers, from the folk singers, to magicians, to break dancers - everyday a new audience. The concealed Neal's Yard is like a hippy hideaway, unyeildingly cheerful despite whatever is happening beyond its walls. It harbours a host of hopeful humans who serve hummus and smiles in equal amounts. The streets are home to shops filled with hundreds of harajuku inspired knick knacks and stationary - all covered in kittys, pandas and frogs, and boutiques of beads, and outlets for the sale of Smartie inspired jewellery. DocMarten Mecca is filled with a mixture of floral, embroidered, metallic and patent boots that make my heart all a flutter. The thrift stores, spotted up and down Monmouth street, smell like old people and attics, and crowded on the rails are a multitude of frightening wardrobe throwbacks hiding the few vintage gems.

I have watched Noah and the Whale, through the windows of the closing Lastminute.com shop, and seen the irony of a homeless man dance to 'Streets of London' performed by a busker. At 18 I remember drinking Pina Colladas at the RoadHouse and thinking it was not possible to feel more grown up (and it probably isn't). On this most recent of missions, I happened to look up at the right moment and found a Space Invader, my first in LondonTown. In Neal's Yard we found a meter box covered in Fridge Poetry that anyone can rearrange, and a studio where much of Monty Python was written. Everytime there is something new, and so I will continue to return to the centre of my London.

One from the Vaults

The Dress, seen here with fuchsia fascinator from Accessorize

The Dress, on previous outings.

This has not been the best week, work wise, and so my creative brain is taking a bit of a dive. Therefore, I have resorted to the vaults for inspiration today.

I am going to a Shebeen party this weekend, for my lovely friend Lara's birthday, and I need something a little South African to wear. I have been racking my brains, thinking about what to wear, when I remembered my gorgeous Stoned Cherrie dress, wasting away at the back of my closet. Its a full skirted wrap around, made with cranberry and black shweshwe fabric - African Modern chic! It has had several thrilling outings in its time. And so I thought I would share with you a couple of its little anecdotes...

Early on in the dress's life it visited Moyo in Durban. It was surrounded by large sculptures of seaweed made out of recycled bottles, carved wooden tables, mosaicked mirrors and lounges padded with silken, sari pillows. Its full skirt lay fanned out against the sari silk under the moon on the deck. The dress ordered a strawberry daiquiri, and tried to sip it before the Durban humidity had turned it into a pink pool. She feasted on samoosas, as she bit into them each corner spurted soft cheese and spring onions. The irony of all these tourists looking for an authentic African experience at uShaka was not lost on the dress - she took the African face painting, and the engineered township music, the native crafts, and the toyitoyi-ing waiters, with a pinch of salt. And afterwards the dress went for a walk on the beach, got sprayed by the sea, and licked the drying salt off her lips.

The dress spent a night of revelry on the River Thames with other dresses. Everyone was in their best and yet nothing could compare to the magnificence of London by night. The eerie splendour of the Houses of Parliament, as the dresses floated past, was eclipsed only by the ominous presence of the Battersea Power Station. It haunts the edge of the river, in its own mists, daring the dress to question its emptiness. Battersea knows it is safe in its position of esteemed endangered site. It does not have the obvious flash of tower bridge, or the audacious iconic nature of the Eye, and it does not need it. The dress holds her breath as the mighty station recedes into the distance, and she softly flickers in the breeze.