Fridays are the best inventions in the whole history of mankind, and especially the ones in London. So as the weekend is here I want to show you one of my favourite Friday’s from this summer in London.
I had been spending the morning writing surprisingly much in Daniel’s flat up in Clapton. As the words fell out of me the hours passed and as soon as it got tough I met up with Ornella to walk around Shoreditch, if you remember? It was humid and grey but the summer still felt endless.
Back in the flat I could hear Daniel enter the big iron gate with his bike. The one that I bought two years ago now, as I was starting London College of Communication and thought that finally I know what I’ll be doing for the next three years. Little did I know. Now the bike is his. He bought it off of me, mostly out of kindness so that I’d be able to buy lunch.
His steps are light, because it’s Friday and as he comes in he grabs me hard and I can’t take my hands off him. We end up listening to the Weeknd and Fetty Wap loud with open windows, finishing the crackers left in our empty cabinet, before walking down to Som Saa. It’s a thai pop up in one of the arches behind London Fields.
We have a dinner date with Amel and Jimmy and I know so well how I will curse when I’m back in Sweden again, but I order everything weird and expensive on the menu. Even the cocktails are odd, spiced with lemon grass and what looks like fish eggs but feels more like tapioca or chia seeds. The conversation is flowing and they turn out to be a brilliant combo, Amel and Jimmy, despite not knowing each other really.
The food is gone and the drinks empty so we head out into the heavy dusk, air full of summer winds and approaching thunder. At the off license next to where I used to nanny we buy cans and head out on the streets towards Dalston.
There’s a new bar that has opened up named Pamela and it looks cool on the internet, which surely means it’s worth checking out IRL too. Outside a kebab shop we stand like teens, giggling, trying to finish up our beers but our bellies are too stuffed.
Pamela’s turns out to be pretty brilliant. Close to the wide open windows we sit, chewing on free olives and ordering banana cocktails. All around us are photos of Pamela Anderson and one lonely rocker chick with torn boots is hanging out at the bar. It feels like New York City and my t-shirt is sticking to my breast bone. More of our friends stumble in from all corners, some who have dated but still don’t make it awkward, some who I don’t know but that it turns out who’s flat I’ve been to a party in.
It feels late but it isn’t, because somehow London nights are endless. We still rush up to Ridley Road though, to make it before the massive queue starts. We don’t, but still manage to sneak in anyways.
The dj with the bleached hair who has the best and most eclectic taste in music is there, and she fucking rocks. The sun is gone since long and it smells like cheap gin, damp shoes and ginger beer.
The place closes at two, and I’m drenched. My hair that’s usually as flat as a sheet of paper sticks in curls along my forehead and down my neck. The boys smoke and I tell them with love that they look ridiculous.
I guess it’s allowed. Normally my hard working brain wants to sleep right about now, but not tonight.
So the four of us walk up to the shaggy pub Shacklewell Arms. It’s where we used to go sometimes back when I hung out with Sam, when we were still just best friends and before he punched me in the face. The disco lights sweep through the venue and we try to make it through the ocean of young people in leather jackets to get to the dance floor.
Cher and Prince and the Strokes come on and I get a drink spilled over my jeans and we dance so much that it dries up. It’s good to be back. Hopefully our weekends will be a little bit like this one. It’s off to a good start though, because Daniel is on his way over to Stockholm.
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