Friday, March 17, 2006


march 17th

Current level of conviction in own genius (out of 10): 9 (creative admin genius)
Hours of creative activity achieved in last 24 hours: 6 (creative admin that is)
Hair day: bit short and un-style-able. Went to Green's in Hoxton, not massively impressed with my 'lesbian/prisoner of war in strange '60s hippie camp' look.


Have had manically busy few days of being Miss Creative Administrator 2006, fired up to the eyeballs with artistic ideas and soundtracked by feverish note-scribbling. If I ignore the trifles of primary school crowd control, the week has been a very positive one: I've been sorting juice's vocals/electronics/visuals extravanganza at Cargo in May (cue mad hand-waving in the face of slightly bemused spnm lass at talk of Bjork covers and throat-singing), plus setting up a funky little gig at the cutesome Redgate Gallery in Brixtonia (a space so naturally echoey you could half-whisper the phonetic 'sk' and half the railway arch would fall down). Yesterday juice did some Meredith Monk-esque improv and recording in the Royal Academy of Music studios plus throwing about of ideas encompassing live vocals and film juxtaposition. Today I charted the National Gallery's horribly tourist-polluted waters in search of paintings with which to get my Junior Trinity kids to compose dance pieces, leading to animated talk of contorted dynamics and pointillist forms. This was swiftly followed by a creative meeting with my visual artist of choice, Harriet Poole, to discuss pinhole photography and Uta Berth-inspired images for Cargo. Creative meetings also include tea, cake and in-depth discourse over boys and shoes, obviously…

All these lunch meetings has entailed a dedicated survey of new places to eat, drink and be creatively merry. This week I have made the acquaintance of MTR Studio 23 on Charlotte Road in Shoreditch, a hilarious couldn't-be-more-Nathan-Barley-if-it-tried cafĂ©/film/space, where I sat in a booth on an old cinema seat, watching a Japanese movie on silent and grimacing into an extremely bad latte. Much cooler was the Photographer's Gallery, an oasis of contemporary coolness amidst the grimy stewpot of Leicester Square. Wholesome rainbows of food and green tea from rolled-up jasmine leaves that uncurled coyly in the cup. We have also now appointed The Camel on Globe Road, E2, as our local (well, Charlie's Bar is our actual local in distance terms, but I'm opting out of bleeding cheeks and being forced to sing Foreigner on karaoke night for the moment). It’s a sedate, baroquely-wallpapered and dark-wooded haven with an ole joanna in the corner and a menu consisting only of pies. Beats your conventional youth-pub with its noise and smoke and new-fangled jukeinthebox or whatever you call it…. London rocks!

Friday, March 10, 2006

brits and twigs (hhmm...)

march 10th

Current level of conviction in own genius (out of 10): 6
Hours of creative activity achieved in last 24 hours: a bit
Hair day: if I spike it up at the front it is a foot and a half long. think it needs cutting.

Of course, in my last blog I completely forgot to mention my appearance at the BRIT Awards (such is my celeb-wheeling whirlwind of a life, all these things blend into one after a while...), in blagging a ticket from my old chums at the BRIT School and standing with da kidz in the pit (alas, not merrily guzzling champagne at one of the tables behind us, swearing blind I'd always been the biggest Prince fan to his royal smallness). I've been twice before, and it was a little underwhelming: not quite the swift glitzy musicfest you see on tv, what with the interminable gaps inbetween acts for set changes, and the sound firing blanks over your head. Lowlights were the deathly dull Jack Johnson and James Blunt, whose girlish yelpings could give a Soft-Coated Wheaten Terrier* a run for its money. Ugh. More fun were Gorillaz' stageful of grooving kids, the funk-whippet* Prince (a bit indulgent, but hell, he played Purple Rain) and - I can't believe I'm saying this - Paul Weller, who although looking coked-up to the ends of his daftly-flicked sideburns, played proper songs on proper instruments. Give me a down 'n' dirty weed-seeped live drum 'n' bass night in the middle of the week any day. See for details!

* Sorry, Crufts is all over the tv this week....

Life is settling down in Bethnal Green, and I am now endeavouring to reflect my 'hood's moniker by being as environmentally-friendly as I can. I am finally doing all those small things espoused by the Guardo et al: turning things off at the mains and the thermostat down and the taps off when brushing my teeth, frenziedly composting everything to pour on our slightly petrified herb garden, and continuing my obsession with refusing plastic bags in favour of carrying everything, spilling bits on the way, in my arms. We are hopping with anticipation at the impending arrival of our first organic veg and fruit box so are clearly true green-tinted boho-eco-warriors now. But there is so much more I can do! Time Out, to which I now subscribe for it is my guide in all things, is full of suggestion this week, and I am next going to investigate being a green woman and source Ecover nail varnish and washable make-up remover pads and tampons made out of hay and things. Oh yes.

PS This all-new green Kerry doesn't extend to welcoming wildlife into our home, though... Came home yesterday to find a little black mouse (or mini-Satan, if you will) legging it out of my bedroom. I, proving myself to be utter wimpoid, screamed like a maiden aunt and Andy found me quivering on the dining room table 15 minutes later. We have now stuffed up the hole under the boiler and it is probably suffocating amongst our Fresh 'n' Wild plastic bags as we squeak. I mean speak.