I met (with) my significant other on Portobello Road among the charming antiques and trendy food stalls. This is the centre for well heeled bartering and discreet haggling. The place that Hugh Grant wannabies foppishly frequent.

Luke Vibert was playing at a club in Farringdon that night and we had to make it before 11 to avail of cheaper entry. We almost came unstuck on the Tube but arrived flushed and excited at the appointed time.

The sometime Wagon Christ played a dextrous set, eschewing his more obscure stuff for an eighties-clad excursion that came with a generous serving of irony. The patrons of this nightclub were an affluent lot and my gf and I survived on a series of abandoned alcholic beverages, dismissed with an airy nonchalance by their owners. This despite the ISS-high prices (well over three quid a pint).

The following evening (having bought new Gola trainers) found us in the bedroom bar near old street. It looks like a spartanly furnished apartment. Mr. Scruff was doing his thing behind the decks. The music twisted on it axis; the (three) seasons being seventies funk, eighties histrionics and Mr. Scruff's more well known tracks (greeted with fervent cheers).

Afterwards, we collapsed into bed like a house of cards.