The Cobra boys are in town; after some brief hang time on Friday night at Victoria's flat in Kensington (which, by the way, is drool-worthy), their first gig is the next day at Give It A Name. Alex puts me on the list with a +1.
We head down there in time for their set at 4ish, walk the wrong way round Earls Court Centre, double back on ourselves, eventually get in. It's very dark inside. Fi wants to get to the front, I prefer to steer clear of teenage moshers, so we settle for somewhere in the middle. It's fun that most of the kids around us know the words to the songs and are dancing and stuff, but like I say, I'm not into the big crowds so duck back a ways. Their set finishes, we escape the crowds, I try to text one of the US cell phones but I'm not even sure they have them on. Fi veers towards Pizza Express in the outer hall but the lines are massive. Both of us would quite like a sit down.
We decide then to leave - we've seen the band we want to see, the only others that interest me aren't on till much later that night. We get off at Turnham Green to stop for ice cream at Fouberts, get some groceries, walk back to the car that we've left in W4, then drive home. Collapse on the sofa with a cuppa to watch Dr Who (The Doctor's Daughter. I had some issues with it, but still. Sob.) and barely move for the rest of the evening. Rock n roll.
2. When drunken BBQs turn into family-friendly affairs
The next day is amazingly hot and sunny. We'd been trying to organise a BBQ for today but as of Saturday night it's only going to be me, my sister, and her friend Katy, which means less BBQing and more lying in the sun with a glass of something cold and alcoholic. As the sun heats up, it seems everyone that couldn't make it before, or wasn't sure if they could, suddenly want in on the grilled meat action. We somehow have eight people turning up and no food, so an emergency trip to Tescos is called for. Food, drink, ice cream. Someone else is bringing the Pimms. There's lots of beer in the fridge. Party time.
We get home and sort food out and then decide to make the garden more toddler-friendly, as the godson is coming over. He brings over his paddling pool, for the amusement of all. The Binnie-Marston clan also turn up, so we now have two under-2s among us. There are more soft drinks around than beer, and the Pimms doesn't even get opened. Everyone lounges in the sun, the music plays (at a neighbourhood-friendly - I hope - volume), people read the Sunday papers, Sam makes me bring down our uni yearbook (laughs all round). All in all it's a thoroughly civilised affair; a far cry from the house party style BBQ of our youth that we had perhaps envisioned, but is there really anything wrong with that? After all, we can't stay young forever, and what's so great about youthful recklessness anyway?
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