in search of some Camarade-ry: and, what to do at 3:AM

Once again your correspondent has had very little sleep. I clearly woke lots of people up in a past life.

But the good news is that the people (I use the term loosely) in the flat over the day care centre seem to have had their sound system confiscated. After becoming louder than ever at 4am – I was literally feeling their bass through my floorboards, and also rebounding into my flat from the other side of the road – and I’m in a mansion block, so that tells you something – it suddenly was much quieter for about 30 seconds. Then dead silence. Since that moment, not a peep.

It stopped just as I was sitting up on my bed with the laptop open to Hackney’s noise pollution page, but it sounds like someone else got there before me. I had thought we were powerless to make Hackney do anything about it. And from the previous, I know if they hadn’t either had the equipment taken away or been threatened with eviction or arrest, they’d have tried it on. It’s been every third Saturday, roughly, all summer.


I never got to sleep again after that till 7.30. You wouldn’t believe the stuff that was going in circles through my mind. I was woken just over two hours later by someone texting to say we can’t, after all, meet up today, The irony is that Mlle B was, for once, safe in her bed while all this was going on, and not out at all. I could have been asleep all night…

But in other news, I did make it to 3:AM magazine/Maintenant’s Camarade III event last night. Groovier than groovy, me. I was late – of course. As I arrived, Iain Sinclair was just leaving so I knew I had missed his double act with Tom Chivers – shame. But I got to see ‘Much Ado About Marnie’, a film riff (with the odd Shakespeare ruff) on red, black-&-white, Hitchcock, the fear of the camera, Hitchcock’s wife Alma Reville, Thelma Schoonmaker (Martin Scorsese’s collaborator/long term editor, also married to Michael Powell of Powell & Pressburger), and modern anxiety – I think – by Simon Barraclough in black and Isobel Dixon in glorious red. And a fabulous set by sound poets Holly Pester & Emma Bennett, two kind of demure-looking girls (& you don’t wear a very pretty fawn crepe-de-chine blouse not to look demure) beatboxing with only Sottish place names. (They got a laugh with the line, ‘I don’t do beatboxing’.) Definitely more fun, and more about language, than ‘sound poetry’ used to be. Chris McCabe and Tom Jenks closed the evening with a performance (with projection) of their double-entendre-laden find-the-sausage limited-edition set of English-summer postcards. See above.


  • yet more rain
  • yet more so-tired-I’m-dizzy
  • yet more sitting here by myself, which was the real reason I went out last night, after two days of it
  • yet more having a hard time concentrating to work
  • yet more thinking Mlle B will be out late again and I’ll somehow be awake in the wee hours
  • yet more there-must-be-more-to-life

And a sudden bit of sun. I should go out and get the guinea pigs yet more grass.

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