The London Diaries 2

The London Diaries – A survivors guide: Camden bound.

The Freak Fair.

It was not a bright nor early start of the day; it was grim but we couldn’t waste a second of our contentment. After a long night session of catching-up, followed by a breakfast session of granola, bagels with peanut butter and marmalade, hot tea with milk and caramel coffee filling the quaint kitchen, it was time for some radical change to our surroundings. We marched towards the hardcore albeit worn backdrop of Camden Town. Spiked, punked Mohawks fence your eye-level vision, while leather and studs are in full swing; Goths have a ball and Trancing Ravers have their House of Pain in the realms of Cyber Dog. The market bursts with homogenous items, clothing bearing musical emblems, skin tight accessories for fetish followers, and shoes that add between four and ten centimetres to your height and up to 500kg to your weight when you realise that you are witnessing the Chinese Invasion. Further into our journey around the stalls, the multitude of shops and vendors the Chinese Invasion continues. (There will be one more mention of the Chinese Invasion later on, but of a different sort). Spring rolls, chow mein, chop suey and kung po tease the nostrils enough to cause salivation culminating a drum rolling stomach rumble. You listen to the glutton within and give in to the greasy pleasure of a 5GBP generous portion. Batteries replenished, and off you go for the last time round the freak fair. You suddenly feel languid and sluggish, as the oily amalgamation lines your insides. It’s starting to feel almost tricky to keep your regular pace as you start to see things a little trippy. “Take your picture in the Wild Wild West saloon, complete with authentic attire, only for a tenner” said the blonde girl in the corresponding attire, who would easily pass as Billy the Kid’s third wife. No thanks love, I think I’ll pass the vintage carnival experience, just to think of the heavy velvet multi-tiered dress with its petticoat and undergarment, the choking corset and wig makes me nauseous at this point. And I’d much rather be an Indian if you ask me anyway, there are way too many pseudo-chiefs nowadays. Exchanging looks with a certain set of people on the bridge means a certain something in local body language and seller is waiting for a prolonged glance as the cue to showing you the range of his ware; these will undoubtedly wear out your body and your mind for a while. Caution to the wise. But sooner or later the walking and talking takes its toll, and since we cannot walk or talk much longer we welcomed Ben & Jerry, and watched the Huntsman seek the girl who was fairer than the malevolent queen.