Beginning of week three in the new flat in the lost land of East London’s Hackney Downs.

It’s a bit of a retail desert out here, with little of the trendy haunts I had so gotten used to down in the southern reaches of the hood.

There is, however an interesting gastro-pub just across the road, which has so far made it’s way onto my list of local eateries.

The Pembury Tavern seems not to be frequented by the postcode plonkers[1] that generally grace the eateries around Broadway Market but by more nerdy, thick-rimmed spectacle wearing types. This might not of course be entirely true, as I have only actually eaten there once and so cannot really be a good judge of what kind of types frequent the establishment. Yet I couldn’t help but notice an entirely wholesome vibe when I lunched there with Jelly last Sunday.

While on the subject of postcode plonkers, it must be said that there is nothing more satisfying than having a blinding hangover and going to Broadway market on a Saturday morning to despise and insult the people and their ridiculous getups.  Why anyone would choose a market (however hip and overpriced) as their main fashion moment of the week is beyond me. I generally stumble over in little more than my pajamas and Marc Jacobs sunglasses, which I wear not as a fashion statement but as an ingenious contraption behind which to hide my bleary, bloodshot eyes.

Oliver Twist wannabe

The vitriol brought on by this nauseated state is unparalleled. I seethe at the sight of grown men trying to look like Oliver Twist and women in their burlesque makeupand wannabe fifties outfits.

I have in fact tried going to Broadway Market when not hung-over (which occasionally, believe it or not, does happen) and it isn’t nearly as fun. All the wannabes just seem bland and desperate and try as I might, I cannot muster any healthy hatred for them.

Back here in the cappuccino-less Downs however, it’s all afro hair salons (maybe I should get myself that weave I’ve always wanted), greasy spoons, social care centres, Turkish food shops (there seem to be four in the immediate vicinity of our block) and late -night shoot-outs. Oh and then there’s Michael’s flower shop under the bridge, which I suspect has a roaring trade, due to the afore mentioned late-night shoot-outs.

Give this square mile three years and I’m sure it will have succumbed to the inevitable gentrification of pre-Olympic Games east London. But for the time being it’s just me and Little Miss Scrumpet (henceforth LMS), living in this soon-to-be glamorous converted Victorian schoolhouse flat.

Oh the trials and tribulations of refurbishing! I can’t wait to tell you all about it…

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[1] Postcode plonker: a person who moves into a certain neighbourhood to make themselves look cool. Generally postcode plonkers are nine to five workers who move into areas formerly too dodgy to inhabit but now frequented by artists and creative types. An influx of postcode plonkers is a sure sign of the gentrification to come.

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