I guess I had not considered that sleeping in a museum wouldn’t involve much sleeping. As I briefly think again about the short after-dinner lecture on ‘sleeping in space’ it’s hard not to think that going to sleep on a thin foam pad on a hard floor at 3am and being woken up in earnest at 7:30 am would most likely disrupt my Sunday’s circadian cycle.
The other day I unintentionally fisted a guy on his privates. He crept up from behind me as he impatiently zigzagged his way through a maze of people in a busy shopping centre; I was just using the dry route to the tube station from the office, energetically swinging my arms back and forth, as you do when you walk; suddenly I felt something crashing against my hand.
There was this brief exchange of looks then he disappeared ahead into the sea of people, leaving me with an uncomfortable queasy feeling. It’s chaos.
Today I went on an alternative London tour looking at some of the world’s best street art. Amazing, inspiring and provocative. The tour also included a workshop that enabled us to practice with some spray paint.
This day out has left me with a whole new perspective on the underground world of graffiti art. Even the smallest tag is a form of expression. Individual, often undecipherable messages that spell out scorn for our ever so over-controlling society.