Since Tuesday I have been feeling like it was Thursday, is how much I crave the weekends these days. Work is boring boring boring, and then post-work we are thick like thieves, stealing about the city, Monday night at the Scala with Camille crazy shouting, fidgeting, meowing, dancing, she was late, she was late, then she came on stage and we were all in love with her. The show ended out on Pentonville Road, where the shuttered shops were a glinty grey, and the Americana Cosmetics sign was red and blue in the dark night. She was in white all over, she was glowing, almost, and she'd hoisted herself up on a lamppost while the frenchies lit up their cigarettes.

Mid-week we were at the Embassy of Japan with the Pecha Kucha crew talking about pokey ceramics and a footheld comb for an armless barber, about shifting, and windows, and gardens, about kitchens for kids with biscuits; about a one-step ladder, a one-cell honeycomb. Listen: one houndstooth. I couldn't stop looking at everyone's clothes—is it possible that all Japanese girls are cute all the time?—and there was a man nurturing a Dali moustache.

Thursday night finally rolled around, and I was out back and outside at Nora and Walter's. The voices mingled on the evening air: someone on the phone upstairs, the TV from up in the trees somewhere, the Somali men from the café over the wall. Nora and Walter have a spider out back and outside, she's just had babies, and she wobbles on a wobbly web. Nora and Walter have a Venus flytrap. His name is Spiky Norman, because, of course.

The 134 heading home seems to never come down Kentish Town Road when I want it, but there's plenty to look at anyway, like Captain Nemo's Fish Bar, or the Indian take-away with the dirty lozenge store sign, or the Coin-Op, where one night a skinny girl sat cross-legged on the folding table.



The heatwave broke, finally, last night, Thursday night, and I stayed up too late with red berries and a crushed Tim Tam in a China-blue bowl.