London

I can't wait to be embraced by your humid tubes, your concrete stare and your sporadic greenery once again.

I knew I was glad to be back when walking through London Bridge we met the sight of a woman unashamedly carrying a five foot long stuffed banana under her arms. I almost wish I'd kept sight of her long enough to see her navigate her way through the ticket barrier. Trailing behind was a flustered man embracing a cuddly love heart with arms.

The parched grass of Hyde Park led the way to the Serpentine, the toilets of which provided ample base for a strip show after the ridiculous heat of the underground. Wolfgang Tillmans. Amazing Venus transit series, circular visions of the moon with Venus gradually moving across its face. The 'mechanics of the sky'. Looking to abstraction within the real world, he found it. Folds and creases of photographs, large scale images, dusky colours, the wistful, ephemeral large scale images of delicate wisps, the manipulation of light on paper. He seems to possess an intuitive nature in relation to framing, in displaying grainy faxes and photocopies, of putting up photos with just double sided sticky tape. Escaping the wrath of the swans on the way back to the tube (they can break a man's arm you know) me and Pip headed onto the Photographer's Gallery, accompanied by a bottle of apple and raspberry juice and a packet of much needed bourbons. Sally Mann was what awaited us. Some really beautiful images captured using antique cameras and the wet plate collodion process. What this is I don't know but I think it involves silver nitrate. Maybe maybe. But whatever it was they incorporated any slight flaw of the technical process. Elements of dust, of outside interruption were embraced. I like mistakes, very much so.

Covered in London transport grime, I experienced my first jaunt down Savile Row. The adverts in Vogue proliferated into living form within one street. I got excited about Chanel. About Stella McCartney. About Hermes. Pip almost had a fashion induced heart attack. And probably explained as to why we walked around in circles for a good half an hour whilst getting sidetracked from the gallery we had planned on going to (Kurt Jackson exhibition). There were bouncers on the door, seemingly with the distinct ability to scare off all those who fell under a particular wage bracket. The only thing more ridiculous than the doormen was the yacht shop we walked past. I certainly felt like a bit of a fraud entering Vivienne Westwood wearing Primark. My scuffed Urban Outfitters boots only slightly redeemed this fact. Only slightly mind. The rain came. We hid in Berkeley Square planning our next manoeuvre. I enjoyed the sight of a doorman at a seemingly prestigious hotel take cover under two umbrellas stuck into some greenery to keep aloft. Hands free indeed.

Hoxton Square was the next stop. Dinner. We persevered with chopsticks but the forks won in the end. The toilets once again became our changing rooms. The hope was that they wouldn't recognize us as we were walking out as we couldn't afford to think about, let alone leave a tip, it was heart breaking enough leaving the Photographer's Gallery shop empty-handed due to my lack of funds. Broken Soul Night. Banging. Smoke filled room so you couldn't even make out the face of the person standing next to you. Hip flask came in handy to spice up our overpriced coke. It was one of my proudest moments.

We finished the night on the tube to Archway, to be met at the station by Marie. To be guided up the rolling hills of Northern London. To be presented with cupcakes taken from the funeral gathering at the pub Marie worked at. It was a really good cupcake. And a really comfy sofa.