Saturday.
Thumping vibe, bright red flowers, picnic rugs.
Waitrose ready-to-eat food, swigging from bottles of wine, beer in coffee cups.
Canada Square, glass skyscrapers. HSBC, KPMG, Barclays and Bank of America all visible.
Grass taking a beating.
Soothsayers. Big, laid back beats, heavy bass.
Too near a speaker, disguised as wooden box. Barefoot leads in orange, red velvet and green. Sax and trumpet blaring. Six o’clock, audience toe tapping, some bopping. Cheers – big screens picks out exuberant dancers.
If you want to dance this is the tune to do it to.
Ska number. Trumpet soloing, close ups of quick fingering. Singer tells of The Brixton Pound. Local currency. A good thing, helps small businesses. Small businesses. Small ones, he emphasised. Finished off with ‘We’re not leaving’. Then left.
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Cerise shirts, men with roses in their hair. Lolling on grass.
Grey skies, rain imminent? Bottles of Chardonnay paired with salt and vinegar crisps.
Boredom between acts.
Count floors on Canary Wharf tower.
More Waitrose bags of food and drink. Hand-rolled fags gone out but still held between fingers. Jackets put on, wind starting, cymbal assembled. Friends hugging, trilby balancers, Mexican food, tequila flavoured beer, Ghostbuster T shirts, spherical lollies, umbrellas…
Expectancy. Pink laces, empty bottles. Empty bottles. Flood lights.
Are you sitting there or there?
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Please welcome onto the stage Miss Yolanda Brown.
Applause. Yellow pattern dress.
It might be a jazz festival but we know how to rock it!
Afrobeat. Cameras, phones, tablets. Rocking Sax. Party like its a midsummer Nigerian evening.
Ice creams dripping. Empty bottles. Canary Wharf security dressed like police.
You know something’s right when you feel it in the bass!
Lights round trees, leather skirts, bare feet. Mud. Wild dancing. Sylvester Stallone?
Forgot a coat.
Getting cold.
Going home.
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