Egg Baskets, Small Dogs and Simon Amstell

Friday morning was all about a potential job that didn’t happen. It was a bit frustrating, but as I didn’t have to get dressed or leave the boat to do it, when it didn’t materialise I just bimbled about in my pyjamas drinking coffee and reading my book instead. If you have to be slightly disappointed I highly recommend doing it this way.

My lovely friend Zak had the day off and suggested we hang out in the afternoon. We were spoiled for choice in terms of things to do, but made some solid decisions which were borne out by the fact that we had a great time.

We met at Kings Cross. I was slightly early so I went to sit outside where there is a giant wire birdcage with a swing in it. I don’t really understand why it’s there, but I appreciate it anyway. Once I actually managed to go there when there was nobody else about and got to have a swing myself, which was thrilling. I imagined myself looking like Vanessa Paradis in that advert she did for Chanel. Jason took a photo of me. I looked like a deranged grandma in a puffa jacket. Still, I had a good time.

There was a queue for the swing on this day, so I sat on a bench with my book and Pokemon Go but got very distracted by a lady who was eating ice cream with her friend who was talking incessantly about fireworks and how she was worried that someone would tie a rocket to her cat’s tail. Of course, that is worrying, but I am not sure it happens enough to warrant her level of obsession with it. According to her ‘it happens all the time.’ I really wanted to ask her where she lived, but I felt I’d probably get in too deep with the whole cat/firework thing and Zak hadn’t signed up for that.

When Zak arrived we headed off towards Coal Drops Yard in search of lunch. En route we passed Hoppers, and as we both wanted to eat there, it made deciding what to do easy. It’s featured in Off Menu and is also beloved of my friend Claire, who has been there several times WITHOUT ME, which is frankly outrageous.

We ordered a bunch of small plates to share. The hopper of the name is a kind of pancake in the shape of a basket. It’s a strange concept and the more you try to explain it, the weirder it gets. The egg one has the runny yolk in the bottom of the basket, all of which is edible. We had masala dosa, dhal and paneer with ours and it was all very tasty. I’m not sure I’d have a hopper again, as it seemed like you were paying for a lot of air with an egg yolk in, but I’m glad I tried it.

Afterwards we wandered up into Granary Square where Zak immediately spotted Simon Amstell because she works in Islington now and hones her star spotting skills on the daily. We said nothing, because we are deeply and forever British and went to the Queer Britain museum at speed. It’s the only LGBTQIA+ museum in the UK. It’s free to get into and it needs visitors and donations, so if it’s your thing, please go.

I was struck by how tiny it was and how little ‘history’ there is to show. I think there are several factors at play, not least of which is that it’s new and is only just beginning to build its archive. Having said that, it seemed to me that so much is missing because queer people have had to live hidden lives for so long and for the longest time, documenting or saving things could potentially lead to criminal prosecution. It made me sad, particularly when what is displayed is a wealth of material about queer people’s contribution to the arts and culture. What a drab world it would be without them in every, possible way. I got hugely nostalgic when confronted with the poster for My Beautiful Laundrette, a film I watched on Channel 4 back in the day. To the gauche East Midlands’ teenager I was then (and mentally still are), it was the most radical, transgressive, beautiful thing I had ever seen. It gave me quite a pang.

Then we did a thorough exploration of Coal Drops Yard, which largely involved going into shops we couldn’t afford, touching things we had no intention of buying and leaving before we got thrown out. I couldn’t make my mind up which I wanted more, a Tom Dixon carafe and matching glasses or a knitted Nosferatu. There was also a magnificent pair of trousers with radishes on that I totally think I could have pulled off if I had £90 to spend on what were at best, stylish pyjama bottoms.

We walked past Hockney, still kicking ass at The Lightbox. I really want to go back and lie on the floor watching his paintings come to life around me for several hours, but today was not that day and I was only being greedy. We cut onto the canal tow path and headed off into the depths of Camden where all the young people and four million holiday makers had converged in an unholy melee. Speeding up in case we got caught and accidentally purchased a novelty hat and a burrito full of botulism, we shot past The Roundhouse and over into the much more sedate, Primrose Hill.

Back in the day I used to go to Primrose Hill a lot. It was in the Nineties when people like Sadie Frost and Kate Moss were having it large and every third person who lived there was a huge star. I used to go for the excellent lunch deal at Lemonia and a frisk round the chaotically wonderful bookshop but I always hoped I might spot them all sitting outside the pub looking starry and dissolute. I never did, although I did once sit at the next table to Jamie Oliver at Lemonia. I’m not sure it’s anything to brag about now though.

We ended our day sitting on a bench in Primrose Hill Park watching all the poshest dogs in the world going for their afternoon walk. There was a series of ever more resplendent sausage dogs, including one with dappled fur and rakish ears. There were a lot of teeny dogs that really should have been in handbags and didn’t entirely know what to do with the ground. One chihuahua type dog had a bald bum which made him look a bit like he was wearing assless chaps when he walked away from you. I don’t know if it was him or the creature that looked like an exploded mop head with eyes that was my favourite.

I walked back via Parkway Greens because I am the sort of person who now has a favourite greengrocer, and I’m just going to have to live with that shame. I bought fruit, and then, to make up for it, I bought an enormous cinnamon doughnut in the shape of a pretzel from Camden Bakery. Obviously I then ignored the fruit and ripped straight into the cake as I was walking back to Kings Cross. I was so engrossed in it, I stopped and sat on a bench amongst the spectacular planting at Coal Drops Yard to give it my full attention, whereupon a rat the size of a small dog, shot out from under my bench and I nearly lost my mind, but in a quiet, ignoring Simon Amstell type way, because British.