I don’t actually live in Shoreditch. But before you call me a fraud, bear in mind there is a genuine story behind my name; that is, how I became Shoreditch Girl. You see, before Shoreditch Girl, there was Shoreditch Boy…
Embarrassingly, regardless of the time of day, season or situation, I often need a cup of tea. Not to say I don’t often dabble in a beverage or two (my friends can definitely agree on that), but there have been times where my beer-sipping friends have given me a raised eyebrow whilst I sheepishly sipped out of my ‘old lady’ cup and saucer. This is why I like the Water Poet, where there is something for everyone. Located on Folgate Street, just seconds from the delights of Spitalfields Market, it is a place to quickly stop and catch your breath.
All forms of life pass by my window. The street-cool kids heading for a trendy 'blitz'-feel night-out with the likes of Princess Julia - who I often see tottering past. The 'crusty' man and his dog who sit outside Tesco Metro asking for spare change. The hordes as they walk to Victoria Park for a summer festival to be repeatedly rained upon. The cyclists in Critical Mass as they pass by on a Friday night. Mums with small kids heading to the City Farm with excited or crying toddlers.
Commodities trader by day and artist extraordinaire by night, Sheiky is a man clouded in mystery with an aversion to being pigeon-holed or stereotyped. Making no mention of his origins, background, or artistic approach, he's one who definitely doesn't like to play things by the book, and who thrives on ambiguity. As Sheiky says of himself, 'he makes a conscious attempt that you don't get a chance to judge him' - and is quite successful in doing so.
After leaving the Labels Catwalk Show in nearby Rivington St. cold and hungry at 11 PM, my friend and I anxiously wandered the buzzing side streets of Shoreditch in pursuit of a hot and hearty meal. Finding ourselves at the crossroads – in both the literal and figurative sense – we were divided between going to Saf, a seemingly organic and healthy option, and Little Hanoi, an unflattering Vietnamese restaurant flooded by bright fluorescent lights, but nonetheless bustling. Being in the mood for a proper bowl of noodles, my friend was able to placate me, and lure me away from the healthy gems of Saf.
I get a little teary-eyed when I see someone sitting all alone in the local park, with not a soul or second shadow in sight. The thought often crosses my mind that I should be the one to make a difference by expanding the shadow of their loneliness; I guess I’m just scared of a negative reaction - which shouldn’t be a valid excuse - but it is.
Being a no-nonsense beer aficionado (who needs wine?), when my friends suggested we check out the Bavarian Beer House on City Road, I jumped at the offer. Although I was excited enough by the prospect of downing golden draughts of premium German ales and lagers, I definitely was not expecting a one-of-a-kind sensory experience that would leave me wondering if I was, in fact, still within the limits of Shoreditch.
I toyed with a number of headlines for this article, including Stuart Bradley and the Unknown EMI Artist, but all of them sounded as much like rejected Harry Potter titles as the above example. Unfortunately, it’s pretty much the best I can do, as the event I’m reviewing was several weeks ago and I wasn’t even meant to be there (I got in by claiming to be a tech reviewer for a national newspaper that was writing an article on social dynamics within the electronic music scene). An elaborate story to construct sober, let alone after a heavy evening of after-work drinks, I credit being able to blag entry to the gravitas of this lie.
With my company’s offices caught between the business-like, uniformed City, and the funky and laid back Shoreditch area, I’m able to get a glimpse of both areas. To the right: proud signboards promoting banks and law firms opened over a century ago. To the left: colourful graffiti walls none less iconic than the bank signboards. As I go for a walk during my lunch break I can wander to either side.
To say I love Shoreditch is putting it lightly. Shoreditch and its many offerings were, and always will be my one true love. All the people, sights and sounds to fill my every possible need. Walking around in what at times feels like a living organism, with art on every corner in the form of public sculptures and graffiti.
The recent riots have been on everyone’s lips this week. Criticism and opinion are spewing out of our mouths, slithering like serpents, and sweeping like hurricanes though just about every aspect of our lives, leaving nothing unaffected. Whether we’re sipping our morning coffee, enjoying a well-deserved lunch break, or downing a pint at our local pub, the riots are all the rage.
According to a well trusted friend of mine, who devotes her life to the perplexing ideologies of superstition, hair will begin to grow in your stomach if you chew and eat your nails to oblivion. I have no nails, so I have a lot to be concerned about. I can’t bear to imagine the thought of coughing up a fur ball, and am certainly not confident enough to ask the street roaming Salem-wannabe cats how to cough some up. Surely my internal hair farm needs a good harvest, right? And, even if it were a good season, I can’t imagine a decent-sized hairball having much street value.
