The Cat of Islington

Thursday afternoon was a lot more pleasurable than Thursday morning. I set off for Islington and lunch with Zak. I arrived early, so while I was waiting for her I sat on a bench on the green, soaking up the sunshine. I was partly reading my book but mostly being distracted by the women that come and go, talking of Michelangelo. It’s right opposite The Screen on the Green which I have very fond memories of. This is largely due to the fact that I went to see Velvet Goldmine there back in the day and got to see Ewan McGregor with no pants on. That sort of thing sticks in a girl’s mind.

Lunch was lovely. We went to Rosa’s Thai which is consistently good, has a decent lunch menu and fairly fast service. After lunch I accompanied Zak back to work and spent an agreeable twenty minutes saying hello to the fish and browsing books I have no room for. Fish wise, I was particularly thrilled to be introduced to a small, black, telephone shaped boy who had an adventure after some teenage boys broke into the tank and threw him across the shop. Despite his flight, he looked very well and was languidly spitting out pebbles on the bottom of the tank as if he had never accidentally gone on holiday. I would not have been half so forgiving if I had been thrown half way across the shop.

I had to leave when I was getting perilously tempted to buy a book called Punk Ikebana and also found myself idly rearranging the tables to the correct house style. You can take the girl out of the bookshop etc. It doesn’t have to be a Waterstones. I am trained to all manner of bookshops.

I set off to explore Islington. It’s one of my old haunts, so many of which have changed out of all recognition. Islington not so much. I was sad to see that the second hand furniture shop that specialised in big, chunky old industrial stuff has gone the way of all things. I used to haunt that place, hoping to find a plan chest for £50. The jumble of antique shops, vintage clothes shops and boutique businesses down Camden Passage are the same but different in ways that don’t matter much. It feels the same, which is what matters.

The back of the High Street is all glass and chrome and Uniqlo now and the Design Centre is beginning to look shabby and more like something you’d find next to a Staples’ but otherwise things are consistently Islingtoneseque. My favourite stretch of the High Street, from the Town Hall down to Highbury and Islington station is as lovely as ever, full of charity shops that look like designer boutiques and designer boutiques that look like hardware shops. Some of the hardware shops look like they’re run by Philippe Starck when he’s not designing pointless orange juicers. Hopefully his way with a bit of 2 by 4 and some flat headed nails is better.

I had thought of walking all the way to Archway, but it was too hot, so I turned round at the station and came back down the other side of the road. I remembered that there was an art gallery on Canonbury Square that I had once tried to go to but it was shut. I decided to go and try my luck, and this time it was open. It’s called the Estorick Collection and it specialises in Italian modernist art, with some particularly good futurist stuff. It’s just a Georgian house that has been delightfully repurposed as a gallery. There’s a decent little tea room, which is always a draw for the art enthusiast. It was sweet, even though Italian futurism isn’t really my bag.

While I was in there, two girls were talking to one of the gallery assistants about her job. They wanted to know everything because they were on an art course and wanted to make art their whole lives. They were giddy with the idea of it and kept bursting out laughing when they were talking about it. It was lovely to see.

The assistant was an old lady, who it turned out as I earwigged on their conversation, had led quite the life. She had left England for Paris and studied at the Sorbonne. After that she went to work for the United Nations for over thirty years until her husband got a job in Switzerland, so they moved there. She did all sorts of things after that and now works in an Italian art gallery in Islington. Her life sounded amazing. When the girls asked what her husband did, she said: ‘He invented tape.’ It was a bit underwhelming. Then she explained it was special tape that was used in industry to stop pipes overheating. That sounded less underwhelming, but none of us were sold on it to be honest. Her life sounded far better.

On my way back I wandered round Canonbury Square, which is a typical London garden square but which has housed all the exciting people at one time or another. Evelyn Waugh, Duncan Grant and Vanessa Bell and George Orwell to name but a few. To be honest, I don’t think anyone should be able to claim George Orwell. He moved so much that practically every town I’ve ever been to has a blue plaque with Orwell’s name on it. He looked quite curmudgeonly. I expect he moved in, had a huge ruckus with the neighbours and moved on.

I moved on without fighting anyone, and threaded through the back streets in the general direction of the tube station. I found the Little Angel Puppet theatre, which I never quite got round to visiting with the kids and now I think it might look a bit weird if I went on my own. I’m not saying I won’t go, mind you. Earlier this year they did a version of Neil Gaiman’s The Wolves in the Walls. I’d have gone to that if I could. I’d have hired a kid if necessary. By any means, fair or foul.

I wandered into the Bakery art Gallery, a small space where an artist called Tim Goffe had an exhibition. I really loved his work. If I didn’t live on a boat and have a ludicrous amount of art in storage, I’d have been happy to give one of his paintings a home. The exhibition is called After Dark. Quite a few of the paintings made me think of the nights I step out onto the pontoon and watch the office blocks of Canary Wharf flaring light into the darkness.

They had an Edward Hopper-ish feel to them, but more rooted in a landscape I understand and connect to. Even though they are empty of people, I don’t feel lonely when I see them. Actually they make me feel like I’m in on a secret.

Tim was in the gallery when I visited and we had a really interesting chat, which as is the way of my people, roamed from art to life and back again. He got into the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition this year and even though I didn’t, I loved his paintings so much I didn’t begrudge him that for one second. I’m generous like that.

I hopped back to Islington Green where I discovered a bench with a bronze cat perched on one side. He was sitting upright with an open book next to him. On the bench a little girl wearing a black velvet cat mask studded with diamonds and her mum were sharing a sandwich. I wanted to take a picture of the cat, so I asked the little girl to move up a bit so she wasn’t in my photo. As I was about to take it, she pointed dramatically at the statue and said: ‘HIS NAME IS TOM.’ I said that was a strong name for a cat and asked if she knew if he came to sit on the bench and read books like she did. She shook her head and said: ‘HIS NAME IS TOM.’ I agreed that it was. I said, his cat mask is not as good as your cat mask though is it? She thought about this and then said: ‘NO.’ I said goodbye and once I was on the other side of the railings she waved fiercely. It was a bold interaction. I enjoyed it.

When I got home I looked up the bronze cat. His name is Bob (after the book A Street Cat Named Bob) but for now and all time, he will be known to me as HIS NAME IS TOM.