On Weekends

Like seasons, I’m going through a process adjusting to giving up on your human term ‘weekend’. Saturday, for the last six years, has meant earning a living in a customer service job. Until very recently I packed shifts in whenever I could, half-days making up for the lack of consecutive days I had off. And then, by accident, I got two days off back-to-back and realised what a bloody brilliant idea that was: Ram all the shifts I could into five days, then have two to myself. “Wow!” I thought to myself, “That’s like the end of a week of work!”


So, Thursday is the start of my weekend, followed by Friday. Saturday and Sunday are fair game, but Thursday and Friday are all mine, and it’s working like a charm.

Today I’ve submitted a job application, bought two records that fit exactly the hole I needed filling – The C-90 charms of the Manhattan Love Suicides’ Burnt Out Landscapes and the retro lush of She & Him Volume One – and intend to complete one comic script and maybe start another. Good times! I enjoy knowing nothing about MLS, just letting the fuzz and distortion of the record turn the talented-but-by-numbers punk make it effortlessly ageless, and equally I love thinking about Zooey Deschanel singing the She & Him songs into my ear because I am, after all, only human, and I haven’t actually seen The Lady for a week.

Today also included two strange and beautiful encounters: The first involved me getting on the tube at Finsbury Park, seeing someone get off who reminded me of a girl who gets on the same train that I get from Brockley into London. The Lady and I have both remarked on how cool her vintage dresses are, and I say to myself every time I see her that I ought to give her a Polaroid Press flyer because it’s the retro and twee that dig that sort of thing. Anyway, it wasn’t her… but ten minutes later the tube pulled in at Kings Cross and the very same Vintage Girl got on. We were both pressed into opposite doors, both recognised each other, both seemed amused by the coincidence, and for the first time I actually had flyers in my pocket, so when we both get off at Covent Garden I get ready to give her a couple. Of course, the crowd is thick and I lose sight of her, and wind up – no word of a lie – seeing her again in time to watch the lift doors close on her. So weird that you can cross paths with strangers in the most cinematic of ways.

Holds true of the second encounter today. A few days ago I was searching for artists and illustrators that I might be able to collaborate with doing stories for The Polaroid Press. Among the sites I found was Powered By Robots, belonging to one Julia Scheele. A few e-mails back and forth later and it turns out she works in Forbidden Planet, so today I say hello and meet a lovely young lady who might just be crazy enough to do a couple of pieces for me. Fucking A! I really liked her art, the sometimes unreal innocence of her style far from the faded grit of polaroids and medium format film and something that, I hope, will push me to think about the shape and space I give images. Also, having a collaborator is going to kick me right into touch: I will need to be good, in order that I don’t stink up someone else’s time and space.

All very cool. A successful weekend so far.

I’m typing, by the way, while Zombie – my name for the cat that has adopted The Lady’s house – washes itself in front of me on the table. I lead a glamorous life.

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