Summer Luvin', Happened so Fast...

[commonpeople1]

Picnics in London are well dodgy: you could be approaching the park under the warmest sunshine only to have rain piss down on you as you wait for your friends at the appointed meeting spot (a bridge in Regent's Park, in my case yesterday.) As tom correctly pointed out later on, a summer day in London can immitate the entire season: plenty of overcast hours, a few showers, and even fewers spots of sunshine. And whatever the appointed meeting time for the picnic, you can be sure you'll be the first one to arrive even if you are half an hour late. You'll worry that your friends have found a spot somewhere beyond the trees (your mobile phone is about to die and they are not replying to your txt msgs - they are ignoring you on purpose hester jokes later on) and you'll have no other option but share a bench with a loner reading the Daily Telegraph who will eye your jam and chocolate donuts, your salt crisps. At least you'll have your Sicilian red wine to drown your sorrows.

When drizzling, find a spot under the trees: the ground will be drier, and during the short bursts of rain throughout the afternoon your food will be protected from most of the water. But stay close to the concrete paths so you can keep an eye on whichever friend has brought roller blades and is trying their luck after a half-glass of wine. Scene of the accident. And don't act surprised when christa, the picnic organiser, is one of the last to arrive. Forgive her when she cracks open the strawberry box and passes it around (can your stomach fit another berry?) Feel happier when the picnic brightens up with the arrival of beth and her own personal, and very cute, cabbage patch kid, katie (emo haircut edition).

When the wind grows too chill and the light through the leaves mesmerizes (here comes autumn) adjourn to a nearby pub (pray there are no football supporters - apart from suzi, that is). Say goodbye to some of the picknickers, say hello to a pair of newcomers (richard and krys). Find a corner at the back of the pub and run the gamut of topics that weren't broached on the grass (Israel, Georgia, Russia, Dexter, Popstarz, Cloverfield). Laugh maniacally when someone finds a giant hunky photo in a Sunday newspaper supplement of that actor from House, laid out like freshly baked chicken, ready-to-eat. The New George Clooney?

Lights and music are on your mind as you walk down Roman Road, heading home. Neneh Cherry stuck in that soggy head (yearning in there), and the East End overtaken by a giant rainbow that grows like an explosion from Stratford, reaches across the sky (capturing a few planes that fly back & forth from Heathrow) and lands somewhere beyond the Emerald City Canary Wharf. Many people looking through the rainbow, as if it weren't really there. No second-takes, eyes to the sky, smiles - nothing. What kind of person doesn't care about a huge rainbow covering the sky?

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[commonpeople.livejournal.com]

Defo txt me or give us a call when you want to go for a Vicky stroll/roll.