It’s tough work living with such a killjoy, sometimes.

Brixton Village, shot on an LC-A+ with 800 ISO film

Side-step 15 minutes from my village of Herne Hill, and you have the 15 million boutiques and brunch-options available to the yummy mummies of Dulwich. But walk just 15 minutes the other side of Herne Hill, and you land in Brixton.

Brixton, the south London hide-away gem that with every step closer to it makes you feel more and more like you’re on holiday. It could be the piles of tropical and foreign fruit, veg and fresh fish piled high in the snake-like roads and arcade rows; the wafts of incense as you walk past stalls selling oversized calculators and bejewelled phone cases; breezes of chilly aircon as you enter an African wax fabrics store to fondle yards of brightly-coloured material; snatches of Caribbean music as a car screeches to a halt at the traffic lights; greetings from the fishmongers as they whistle along to a pounding dance track; the incredible amount of eateries spread over the bustling mini-metropolis, each offering a different oral and aural experience you’ve not tried before, or maybe it’s the meandering locals and visitors who never seem to have anywhere pressing to go.

Franco Manca pizza, shot on an LC-A+ with Fuji Velvia 50

It was a rare day off that led my feet Brixton-way today, first to Franco Manca for a sourdough pizza and frosty apple juice as I read my book all on my lonesome, and then on to The Bread Room for an iced coffee and a catch-up on some laptop work. Perhaps it was the mild heatwave and high humidity London experienced today, but my summery feeling is always heightened the further down Railton Road/Atlantic Road I walk.

Federation Coffee, one of the more permanent pop-up shops/cafes in Brixton Village, shot on an LC-A+ with 800 ISO film

Over the last couple of years there’s been an obvious gentrification of Brixton, but I don’t think the heart and soul of the area has been lost — if anything, it’s encouraged more local businesses to spring up (particularly thanks to the Space Makers’ work); along with a thriving creative industry. This has obviously driven house prices up and brought along the trendies (which may explain why I only seem to wear my coral pink jeans on trips to Brixton), but with it has brought a new lease of life to the public spaces of Brixton, such as Windrush Square and in the future, a revamped Raleigh Hall.

Jim in the new Windrush Square; shot on a Diana Mini

The people of Brixton and those attracted to Brixton always put me at ease — at least, on the backstreets behind the high street, around Atlantic Road, Electric Avenue, and of course Brixton’s two indoor markets, Brixton Village and Market Row. There’s a slight smugness, or just plain ol’ togetherness, that you experience in Brixy — where stall-holders and waiters recognise you, and other locals almost do a head nod in the style of Larry David’s secret bald-man’s group. Everyone’s in on the secret, and woe betide the North Londoners who pass Brixy off as being “too South London.”

Young Brixy dog-walker, shot on an LC-A+

It’s on the backstreets that people have time to chat with you as you mop up some garlic olive oil with stretchy sourdough crusts, or as you reacquaint yourself with an ex-local hairdresser who now moonlights in a cafe, and passes along the contain details of your old local bikini waxer (Gemma — you’ll recall my story of this infamous waxer!) and her new salon. Or wait patiently and kindly as you dawdle over which cupcakes to buy as a treat for dessert that night. Or offer cooking advice for that random fillet of fish you’ve bravely bought on a whim. Or hum along to an unknown, made-up be-bop song behind you in a queue as you buy some organic cashew nuts and rye bread in the wholefoods shop.

I simply love Brixton, and the way I feel when I’m there.

Haven’t had much time for blogging recently — and this week’s Tumblr Diaries will be a little late I’m afraid! — because I’m busy studying for the Life in the UK test, so I can get my indefinite leave to remain visa, and then *breathes deeply* citizenship.

Funny story on that subject: I bought the four study guides needed for the test on Amazon last Thursday after Petah’s recommendation, but because we went to Paris on Friday for a long weekend, I missed the delivery. As the post-man sometimes delivers things to the indie book-shop near us, I ambled over to see if my package was there.

Lo and behold, it was! But it was covered in Amazon’s usual blaring graphics, and as it was handed to me, the nice book-shop guy gave me a bit of grief for ordering books on Amazon instead of buying from him. I was so flustered and embarrassed that I blurted out some excuse about them being study guides and him not selling them — which is true! — but the damage had been done :(

If the discomfort I experienced in that little preamble to the test doesn’t make me British, then passing a quiz about British history barely does either.

Image Credit: Make Blog Not War via We Heart It via Photojojo

Photo shot on a night out I’m legally allowed to be embarrassed about: my hen ‘do.

And I mean embarrass. It’s not just a case of singing horribly, terribly off-tune. Oh, if only it were that simple! Unfortunately, mops ‘n pops Hannaford decided to skimp on the rhythm gene too, rendering me completely and utterly incapable of finding a beat to dance to.

It’s true what they say that I can’t even dance to the default Nokia ringtone.

In fact, my friend Tasha branded me “Offski Beatski” a few years ago, a name that’s stuck and been passed around like a particularly shameful love letter from the fat girl to the footballer. Yet the fat girl persists in her crusade, oblivious to the fact that she’s making a spectacle of herself — or maybe she just doesn’t care.

Normally, I can write off my “performance” as silly drunkenness. And usually, when karaoke rears its head, everyone’s so wasted anyway that a few (ok, all of them) offkey warblings to a Human League song go fairly unnoticed.

If it weren’t for my particularly obvious literal dance moves, that is, perhaps most clearly defined in my “refrigerator dance” to the Dire Straits’ Money For Nothing. A dance I performed at our wedding party, no doubt to the horror of my new in-laws. “I know we’ve just been landed with an Australian, but an Australian who thinks it’s acceptable to mime a fridge delivery-man, to the tune of a Great British Guitar Classic?”

My no-fear, can-do bravado reared its head once again on Tuesday night as I was spontaneously invited along to Qype’s #BowledOverByQype event at the All Star Lanes bowling place in Bayswater…

Major “wave hands in air to the rough approximation of Lisa Loeb’s Stay“-props to Gemma who invited me along at the last-minute (I’m a Qype member but hadn’t put my name down on the list for the event). Speaking of Lisa Loeb, yes, yes we did. Fake Amurrrican accent and all.

Now…

I love bowling, even though I’m crap at it (though I was less-crap that night!)

I love singing, even though I’m crap at it (yes, I was just as crap that night!)

I love dancing, even though I’m crap at it (yes, I was just as crap that night! But thank god I decided against seeing if they had some Dire Straits).

…So it was pretty much the perfect night out. And I wasn’t even that drunk. Ok, so I had about three or four glasses of red, and one damn strong (and bloody tasty) julep. But the yummy quasedilla starter and blackened salmon and candied beets main definitely danced a blockade around my liver, warding off evil alcoholites from entering my bloodstream (or however drunkenness happens…I think I got a D in human biol, from memory).

So basically I had no excuse for what happened later that night in the Americana-decor’d private room. True, it could’ve been worse — so so worse! — but I was kind of gutted when someone else jumped in and sang Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now, a song I’d added to the playlist.

A song, I might add, which is usually my first port-of-call, mainly because my dance routine (yes, I have one) for that song completely detracts from the fact that I can’t sing. And not to discredit Freddie Mercury or anything, but that song hardly commands a good grasp of note-hitting. Except for that last “dah-dah daaah, daaah dah-dah dah daaah doo-doo doo dooo” that fades off into the direction of Zanzibar.

So anyway, someone came along and rained on my handlebar-moustache parade, and LEFT ME WITH NO CHOICE.

So I had to embarrass myself to Fleetwood Mac’s Don’t Stop, warbling away as I (no joke) propped myself up in a corner of the room, waiting for my turn at lobbing a ball down the gangplank.

And then there was Human League’s Don’t You Want Me.

And S Club 7′s Don’t Stop Moving.

And god knows what else, because even I had to stuff cotton-wool in my ears to drown out the sound of my singing.

Shame there was nothing that could be done about the dancing, which consisted of various leaps, rough approximations of a streetlight and walkings-down boulevards for Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing (have you noticed a trend yet? Every song I chose started with “Don’t”. I’m not sure what that says about me); tiger-hands and rocket-ship motions for Queen, and oh god did I dance to Abba too? Or was it Grease? Oh oh dear.

In short, I should probably capitalise on my propensity to embarrass and just submit my name right on into the Fame Idol / Pop World / Britain’s Snot Talent barrel o’ laughs. At least then I can reap the rewards while knowingly pulling one over on the British Viewing Public, and then flee the country (back to Australia, tail firmly not-between-legs as if nothing ever happened at all). Ohmygosh — do you think that’s what Wagner (did I get the pop-culture reference right, Twitter?) was doing?

Finally, if you want a good night out, definitely head on over to the Bayswater branch of All Star Lanes. I’ve not been to the other branches, but I bloody love this one. Check out my review on Qype here.

]]> http://katherinehannaford.com/2011/01/27/my-kneejerk-reaction-is-to-embarrass-myself-at-karaoke-and-dancing/feed/ 3 http://katherinehannaford.com/2010/10/18/where-else-you-can-find-me-online/ http://katherinehannaford.com/2010/10/18/where-else-you-can-find-me-online/#comments Mon, 18 Oct 2010 21:08:20 +0000 Kat Hannaford http://katherinehannaford.com/?p=154 Continue reading →]]> Just a quick note to say that while I may not be updating this blog much, there are plenty of other ways you can follow me (all one of you who that appeals to – hi Mum!)

My Tumblr (where I mostly post inspirational home and decor ideas; crafty projects;gorgeous letterpress examples and animals in costumes).

My Twitter (where I chat the occasional techbite, but mostly talk drivel).

My Flickr (where I upload photos shot on my Lomo cameras; food and a sleeping Effie-cat).

Gizmodo (my day job, where I blog consumer tech; design; architecture and other random, irreverent pixels).

Again.