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. 



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...