Angel is full of the most marvellous antique shops filled with the most enticing of sparkly things, shops with stuffed swans wearing tiaras and windows of beautiful jet jewellery...we press noses  to the glass and sigh... and stroll on to find somewhere to eat.  We settle for a turkish place; from every inch of the ceiling hangs a lamp in coloured glass and pierced metal or swirling coloured ceramic.   Tables and shelves are piled with strange objects and kilim rugs.  We settle in to graze through plentiful meze and girl talk.  I'm blessed to have such friends who'd come out on such a miserable rainy day to sit and eat hallomi cheese with me, and offer their love when I am about as miserable as I've ever been in my life.

Much later, and fuller, we stagger out into unexpected sunshine, and across the road I notice something to cheer the stoniest of geek hearts.


I've walked past it before as there used to be the best button shop in the world down one of the side roads (where incidentally in another bit of SF oddness, I once met Hatty Hayridge who was just hanging out in the shop chatting to her mate who worked there) but seeing it again gave me a  a happy tingle.   My companions just rolled their eyes but dutifully took pictures for me.

...walking back to the station, I gave in to female stereotype and turned to shoe shopping as temporary relief from heartbreak.  True to gender, all  4 of us were pulled up short by the siren call of steampunk Victorian boots in a particular window, only the shop was locked.  At lunch time.  A sales person let us in when we rattled the door but didn't seem particularly keen to serve us.  Getting him to go look for the sizes we wanted was an effort. He locked us in again, so that A had to unlock the door to let in the other assistant who was outside banging on the door and ringing the shop phone on his mobile.  Odd.  All became clear when first chap then nipped outside to finish the hefty joint being swapped between him and his colleague. At least they weren't breaking the law by smoking indoors!  A sat on the floor to try on her boots as they didn't seem to be places to sit. We both kept leaning against shop fittings for support only to have them swivel about alarmingly.  Both sales blokes completely failed to find the partner to the left boot I was trying on.  So as A battled with the zips on hers I stood on one leg, heron-like trying to make a judgement.  Somewhere in Islington is one-legged, right-footed goth shop lifter.   They did eventually find a right boot in the next size down, and like most people I have one foot bigger than the other and by chance the smaller boot fitted my right foot.   They weren't sure at first whether they'd sell me odd boots, but I put the case that they were going to have one odd boot no matter what, so they might as well make a sale, and while I was at it what kind of discount would I get for having odd sized boots.  They pondered while I got cash from the next door hole-in-the-wall...

...when I returned A hisses that we were 'a band'.  Apparently 4 goth chicks out for lunch and a spot of shoe shopping look like they must be a girl band.  I'm happy to play.  Sales chap had asked if we were a band and everyone just found themselves nodding: 'sure, course we are'... 'What are we called?' she hissed, and for that I had the answer; 'We're The Soulless Minions of Orthodoxy'*. Perfect name for a girl goth group. Which is exactly what I told sales bloke when he asked.  Apparently I'm the keyboardist - with these nails that might be stretching credulity, but apparently not...  Our first single is called 'Pillow Fight'.  No doubt the video involves feathers and trying to pull each other's clothes off...anyway, chap in shop is keeping an ear out for our next gig night.  And both A and I got a fat discount.  As I was paying he said: 'you're wearing a rubber shirt'.  'Indeed, I replied, 'I certainly am'.  People do seem to feel the need to tell me these things that surely they must realise I already know, being that I was present when I was getting dressed in the morning.  Likewise, I am already aware that my hair is pink. 

Back at the tube station we take a group shot of four fifths of SMO - our basist L having had to dash of temporarily for tea elsewhere.  Anyone wanting to sign us can leave a comment.  We already have half an album planned out. I have no idea if N can sing, but since when has that ever held up a pop career, especially when we all look great in corsets.


*Anyone that can name the reference gets a chocolate biscuit through the mail.

A obliges for the exterior shots of the station and we pootle underground to go buy beads, gothy wellies and have tea at Oxford Circus.

Look, any excuse to get the fairy wings on ok...I'm unhappy; humour me.