Thames Valley School of Driving

north shields quayside fish docks, hannah and taryn's art intervention project in empty white walled gallery space, banging on the doors of abandoned lighthouses, along the sea wall to it's point and back again, up steep stairs past boycott netto posters and into a furniture and curio shop full of lost seventies photo albums, kodak colorsplash cameras from the sixties, bags of rusted hammers and pliers, a man who joyously broke wind at great length and noise, a strange hairy rabbi doll in it's original packaging that played a broken melody when shaken, cheap detuned beautiful old upright pianos with free delivery, then departure to south shields through gateshead's relentless traffic.

divided a sandwich in half in the car and ate while polly put her jacket across her lap, looked out the window at the motorway interchanges and engineering and asked me about home, laughing. claims my particular brand of apparent recklessness can be attributed to the Thames Valley School of Driving - hand on roof, window down, music cranked, cigaret in hand and handbrake turns. I refute.

south shields beach and then to another sea wall where the waves were leaping up over the railings and I played the game but got soaked and my phone filled with little shrimps and is now broken; staggering back whilst wiping the salt water out my eyes, I stood in 4 inches of water and ruined my shoes; climbed the red iron steps of another abandoned warning tower and mocked the unimaginative graffiti there, carnival on to marsden grotto and pints of guinness by the squally dashed north sea, admiring the limestone erosion patterns like geography teachers on holiday.

to the byker wall for hannah's delicious fresh veg curry and origami crocodile competition then on to the cumberland where tom and fabienne slaved and al talked cheerfully with his silly booming laugh to some nice looking people, on to the free trade to see a woman like lolo ferrari with an arbitrary line drawn around her jaw to demark the alleged zone of her lips, ugly tits spilling out of an ugly top, talk of funding from arts developement council and angry arguments with insistent feminists then home, home to my house to sleep.