Putting the Hop into Hip-Hop at Notting Hill Carnival (2 of 2)
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Stumble It!Putting the Hop into Hip-Hop at Notting Hill Carnival (2 of 2)
Ireland
To cut a long story short, I eventually cab it and find an ever-so-patient Tony, still waiting at the station! We hobble to his flat at 1am - my flight was at 7.30, if that puts it into perspective! And it's not like Dublin to London is longhaul!
We have a lot of catching up to do, given that a) I haven't seen him for two and a half years, and b) he's had way more beer than my "sensible" grand total of NONE. So we drink till 9am - I can't quite believe it either! And well, being on painkillers has never stopped me before, so I don't see why medication and alcohol cocktails shouldn't be shaken, or stirred, now.
We catch up on the last quarter of a decade, and have a blast listening to a gazillion CDs, from his sickeningly extensive and tasteful collection that I'd missed for so long. This is a man who could not leave the southern hemisphere without being armed, literally, with not one, but two of those CD carriers, capacitating 400 of your treasured sleeveless babies! Our "lowest" (in every sense of the word, given the very nature of the underground world of rock'n'roll) common denominator is that we're both ex-music journalists - the magazine we wrote for being our introduction, so we're very much in our collective element.
Oh, and we're undoubtedly pissed: 99p cans of Stella doth make a happy gal! Oh, I squeal and point, not unlike Tattoo from Fantasy Island, every time I see a plane flying over the innercity skyline. I don't know why either. This would explain how I pretty much forget all about that swollen thing in the middle of my right leg.
Suffice to say, the rest of the weekend was very, very, very slow. A few beers, minimal walking/hobbling and lots of silly jokes, invariably at my expense! Notting Hill Carnival was well worth the effort: a great vibe, great music, great food, great people! (Despite damn near killing me.) A would-be five-minute walk took me about an hour, but luckily it was the kind of place you could just sit and chill, and take it all in. I even managed to fall UP some stairs (there's something very amusing about watching a person, already on crutches, fall arse-over - "apparently" - and get crunched in the crowd but, it was still great!
Fortunately, one of Tony's friends lived smack-bang in the middle of Notting Hill, so I was able to seek refuge in the comfort of her fabulous house, while the others danced on the pillars outside! It ended up being a bit like a multinational drop-in centre! At last count there were some stray Kiwis who propped themselves on this very cool little "raised platform" that jutted out like an oversized bay window, a couple of French people, a Swedish teacher who I remember vividly - as he talked my ears off, not to mention the legs off the table we were sipping tea across - a Spanish girl, a Belgian, god - it was like a UN convention! This both reinforced the 'meeting people from all over the world' aspect of travelling and reminded me why I love it so much - so much that I continue to do it, able-bodied or otherwise!
In a way shorter version than it seemed to my arms (At the risk of sounding "girly," what is it about upper-arm strength that most women just don't have?), this is how getting back panned out.
Most of the surrounding tube stations were closed for the carnival, so basically I had to hobble with Tony and an equally obliging Ashley (to whom I owe much admiration for his restraint from laughing at me or trying to trip me - "not 'alf"!). We had to find a minicab, as there was no way I'd negotiate the tube by myself in time for the connecting train to Stansted. Plus, I was knackered.
Not surprisingly, we were told there wouldn't be any minicabs for about three hours, as the streets were jammed with people dancing. So I jumped on a bus - which sat in traffic for way too long. I was certain I'd miss my flight!
It was about 7pm by the time I literally hopped out at the nearest tube that wasn't closed. I practically flew down the stairs (should 'flying' by defnition, include jumping enthusiastically with the aid of two metallic sticks!) to a train that fortunately went directly to Liverpool Street Station! How lucky was that?!
At Liverpool I enquire when the next train to the airport is and am told there's one just about to depart from platform 6, so again I hop like mad to get to it! Fortunately, I then hear an announcement that the Stansted train has changed to platform 8 - and even more fortunately I notice platform 8 is actually closer. plus there are no stairs to encounter! I jump on and make it to the airport with an hour to spare but, naturally enough, the flight is delayed. Ah well, better to be early than late I say...
Although it took a bit more effort and pain than I'd anticipated, it was well worth it, though I think I 'should' listen to the oddball doctor next time. (Oh yes, doctor - and concerned friends and family worldwide - I am only too aware that I exacerbated my injury, and curbed the healing process
a wee tad.) But, me being me, I probably won't. It was well worth it though, but I think next time I might listen to the doctor who says, "Don't go to London."
