As the Flames Rose to Her Camden Nose
After my apartment's flooding on Friday, I thought it would be a nice, relaxing change to meet friends for drinks on Saturday night. In Camden. Most people, including the birthday-celebrators, were already sitting down with their cocktails when I arrived at 55 Bar. It was happy hour and the men behind the counter had beautiful arms and the kind of costumer service only seen in the U.S. of A.
We are sitting in the reserved corner, sipping away our fruity sobriety, under a barrage of classic rock, when someone returns from the outside hyperventilating: "there's a massive fire in Camden market. If you haven't seen it, go outside. The air is covered in smoke and people are being evacuated." One of the bartenders, who looks like the younger, fit brother of Paul Giamatti, starts a rumour that a junkie dropped a cigarette in a pile of newspaper (later, when we leave the bar, I'll catch him telling the bouncer that a freight train carrying oil collided with something just as it was going past Camden market.) As kixie said, a train goes through Camden market?!? And as moral_vacuum said, there goes London's supply of cheap PVC trousers.
For the rest of the night, we updated each other on the fire, showing the images we captured on our mobile phones, notifying family and friends that we were alive, and generally continuing our drinking as if we'd only leave the bar if forced by riot police. I didn't have my mobile phone on me, so I couldn't notify Kevin or anyone else that I was alive (Kevin, at that hour, was staying over his sister's and completely oblivious to my damsel-in-not-much-distress status.)
Other than this major event in London's history, I met some nice people, and had a good time with the old timers I always see in these gatherings. Some unfortunately left too early, leaving me in hope we'll have a better catch up next time around. Others didn't speak to me until the end of the night; they better make it up next time by lavishing me with plenty of attention. And drinks.
My most surreal memory of the night is standing by Camden Town tube station, police cars everywhere, streets deserted and cordonned off, a girl sobbing hysterically into her boyfriend's shoulder, TV cameras pointed at perky journalists (surrounded by your typical rubberneckers), and teqkiller and I, leaning against a police barrier, sharing hand moisturizer SPF 45.
We are sitting in the reserved corner, sipping away our fruity sobriety, under a barrage of classic rock, when someone returns from the outside hyperventilating: "there's a massive fire in Camden market. If you haven't seen it, go outside. The air is covered in smoke and people are being evacuated." One of the bartenders, who looks like the younger, fit brother of Paul Giamatti, starts a rumour that a junkie dropped a cigarette in a pile of newspaper (later, when we leave the bar, I'll catch him telling the bouncer that a freight train carrying oil collided with something just as it was going past Camden market.) As kixie said, a train goes through Camden market?!? And as moral_vacuum said, there goes London's supply of cheap PVC trousers.
For the rest of the night, we updated each other on the fire, showing the images we captured on our mobile phones, notifying family and friends that we were alive, and generally continuing our drinking as if we'd only leave the bar if forced by riot police. I didn't have my mobile phone on me, so I couldn't notify Kevin or anyone else that I was alive (Kevin, at that hour, was staying over his sister's and completely oblivious to my damsel-in-not-much-distress status.)
Other than this major event in London's history, I met some nice people, and had a good time with the old timers I always see in these gatherings. Some unfortunately left too early, leaving me in hope we'll have a better catch up next time around. Others didn't speak to me until the end of the night; they better make it up next time by lavishing me with plenty of attention. And drinks.
My most surreal memory of the night is standing by Camden Town tube station, police cars everywhere, streets deserted and cordonned off, a girl sobbing hysterically into her boyfriend's shoulder, TV cameras pointed at perky journalists (surrounded by your typical rubberneckers), and teqkiller and I, leaning against a police barrier, sharing hand moisturizer SPF 45.