You may be a lady "of senior years", but still young at heart, saly. 
Things seem at last to be looking up for Dalston - that picturesque honey trap for tourists. Not. The last time I was there, in the depths of a rainy winter evening, most of the shops were boarded up, and the market area strewn with greasy wrappings, remains of vegetables, and fish heads. The area outside the Vortex jazz club was "redesigned" a couple of years ago: to what purpose has never been clear to me. It consists of an area of bare concrete, about 100 x 50 yards, with what were the previous shack-like stalls staffed by dodgy-looking characters still lining one side, nondescript raised flowerbeds interspersed with young saplings planted at each end, and a hedge bounding the other side, with football stadium-type lights ina long line shining down on the space, obscuring a car park behind. One had to traverse this bare square to reach the Vortex, circumventing threatening groups of hooded teenagers on mountain bikes. But last night most of the shops in Kingsland Rd (the "high street") were either open or had been spruced up, and the market square was spotless. We had arrived early to get decent places, and the club had not yet opened, so we went over to one of the stalls for a much-needed paper cup of coffee. Marcus's was the only stall opened - the rest being bolted up - but friendly Marcus had made a cosy den out of his and his friends' place, and told us he had managed to find the place to sell the Ethiopian coffee he had on offer after losing his business in the fire at Camden Lock 2 years ago. A long chat while he told us his story of coming to London as an Ethiopian refugee 12 years ago left me thinking of how refugees are constantly stereotyped in the tabloids. During the halftime interval break I stood outside for some air, chatting to the gap-toothed guitarist I knew from elsewhere - a tall-friendly guy who used to be lead guitarist in one of the better-known punk rock bands of the late '70s, whose name I always forget. We were approached by a tall, impressive black girl with a completely shaven head, and wearing the most amazing necklace, who asked what was the action within. She turned out to be Ghanaian. After returning to the gig - a wonderfully convivial benefit event they charged £12 entry for 3 hours of changing line-ups for the family of the trumpet player Harry Beckett, who died aged 85 a year ago, I noticed her in the audience. Three trumpet players, a guitarist, tuba player, drummer and a scrawny young white violinist, proceeded in playing a set of West African Highlife music. Full of joy, it could have been for her. We left early, in order to catch the last train home, but suffused with a rosy glow, which, stays with me today.
S-A
Things seem at last to be looking up for Dalston - that picturesque honey trap for tourists. Not. The last time I was there, in the depths of a rainy winter evening, most of the shops were boarded up, and the market area strewn with greasy wrappings, remains of vegetables, and fish heads. The area outside the Vortex jazz club was "redesigned" a couple of years ago: to what purpose has never been clear to me. It consists of an area of bare concrete, about 100 x 50 yards, with what were the previous shack-like stalls staffed by dodgy-looking characters still lining one side, nondescript raised flowerbeds interspersed with young saplings planted at each end, and a hedge bounding the other side, with football stadium-type lights ina long line shining down on the space, obscuring a car park behind. One had to traverse this bare square to reach the Vortex, circumventing threatening groups of hooded teenagers on mountain bikes. But last night most of the shops in Kingsland Rd (the "high street") were either open or had been spruced up, and the market square was spotless. We had arrived early to get decent places, and the club had not yet opened, so we went over to one of the stalls for a much-needed paper cup of coffee. Marcus's was the only stall opened - the rest being bolted up - but friendly Marcus had made a cosy den out of his and his friends' place, and told us he had managed to find the place to sell the Ethiopian coffee he had on offer after losing his business in the fire at Camden Lock 2 years ago. A long chat while he told us his story of coming to London as an Ethiopian refugee 12 years ago left me thinking of how refugees are constantly stereotyped in the tabloids. During the halftime interval break I stood outside for some air, chatting to the gap-toothed guitarist I knew from elsewhere - a tall-friendly guy who used to be lead guitarist in one of the better-known punk rock bands of the late '70s, whose name I always forget. We were approached by a tall, impressive black girl with a completely shaven head, and wearing the most amazing necklace, who asked what was the action within. She turned out to be Ghanaian. After returning to the gig - a wonderfully convivial benefit event they charged £12 entry for 3 hours of changing line-ups for the family of the trumpet player Harry Beckett, who died aged 85 a year ago, I noticed her in the audience. Three trumpet players, a guitarist, tuba player, drummer and a scrawny young white violinist, proceeded in playing a set of West African Highlife music. Full of joy, it could have been for her. We left early, in order to catch the last train home, but suffused with a rosy glow, which, stays with me today.
S-A
You can have all four seasons in one day. Today we had sunny spells & showers - not bad going.
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