Tubewhore (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} tubewhore) wrote,@ 2007-11-03 11:33:00 |
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| Entry tags: | central line, dlr, stratford |
Stratford...
The weekend in London had not been productive so far in terms of station collection, not a single sausage on either Friday or Saturday, but did get some camera-whoring in, as had been photographed for Gothic Lolita Magazine on the Saturday evening. Showing airy disregard for this immortalisation in print of my sheer fabulousness, I'd shooed away the researcher who'd appeared at our elbow on the dance floor like some clipboard-bearing sprite, with promises of pictures only after I'd finished gothing out to Eloise with my dashing companion, psychonomy. I don't get to go dancing much and I wasn't missing out on the full splendid sillines of the Damned at top volume for something as transient as getting my piccie in a magazine.
So, Sunday was to see the conquering of Essex, starting with a group met up at Stratford on the Central and DLR. I'd previously parked my luggage at Liverpool Street, and arrived a little early, so popped outside to have a scout around. The weather had turned wet and wintry, making a stroll round the station environs rather grey and grim. Back in the mists of the early 90's I'd pass through Stratford a lot, and yet I recognised nothing. Since the advent of the DLR, the station was now a curved wing of glass and steel and the bus station outside artfully canopied.
Directly outside, there were also what seemed to be two clocks standing right next to each other, even though one seemed to think it was twenty-five to six in the evening. I was puzzling over this proximity, and taking pictures when a chap in a royal blue tracksuit and bad teeth took an interest in my interest in Stratford and wandered over for a chat. Nice to know The Nutter Magnet I had installed is still pulling them in. He couldn't explain the two clocks to me either, but did say the place had gone downhill - he was there visiting his mother, and opined that people here were all selfish and that ' if your leg fell off and you had one eye hanging out they'd just step over you in the street' . Now there's an image. Apparently it was all different in 1976. We then fell to a jovial interrogation of why I didn't dress like everyone else (and bear in mind that for once I was in a tweed jacket and jeans) and the word 'goth' was mentioned, which turned out to be a magic word for my interlocutor, who suddenly became positively excitable.
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failing_angel, wandered up, in time to witness said chap in a royal blue track suit open the top of his head and let all the crazy stuff about how much he covets hot goth death chixs in black latex just pop out. Hilarious. This is why chaps in royal blue track suits aren't allowed into goth clubs, because their poor little brains would explode and it makes a mess on the wallpaper. Indeed, this one seemed quite upset that he'd not been able to find any hot goth death chick in black rubber hanging around Stratford Bus Station. Which lead to a plaintive, and slightly desperate appeal to us as to where we were all hiding...I told him to try the internet, but this was not the answer he was after, and having collared an insider he wanted specific information, like a detailed map, or timetable of when and where we could be spotted, like the rare and secretive birds we are. I told him to go to Whitby, where flocks of delicate creatures in corsets descend in vasts numbers, twice yearly. Amusing as interacting with the local wildlife was, the rain was picking up, and we had other friends to find, so we left our new friend go wistfully into the drizzle with his head filled with new dreams of where his latex-clad vampire bride in black might be lurking. If he ever does turn up in Whitby, I sincerely apologise. 
At least
failing_angel was able to explain that the original source of my puzzlement was not a pair of clocks but in fact a clock and a countdown to the Olympics in days, minutes and seconds. It also says thank you to South and East Londoners, which by implication means all other Londoners can just f*** off. I do love the twisty clock though...
Having gathered our merry band, we waited for an Epping Train as the weather got steadily worse. Across from our platform was evidence of all the building going on around here.
Rain, rain and more rain...
