Thursday, 8 August 2013

the pitfalls of living a disconnected life in a digital age

I've had a phone stolen, put one through the washing machine with my work trousers and lost one under about a foot of fake snow at a New Years Eve party at the Scala.

But when my HTC Desire decided to give up the ghost earlier the week, things were different. This was my first smart phone, my connection to the world that went beyond missing out an a few texts or the odd call. ok, it's a slight hindrance to the way I lead my life, but it's no big deal.

so as me and my girlfriend head our separate ways at Liverpool Street station with half made plans to meet again at a certain time if the fates allow, otherwise I'll see her at home.

I was out and about to witness a handful of Enfield's bands dragging themselves away from the Bush Hill Park Tavern for once, I've seen one of my boroughs most beloved bands struggle for attendance as close to home as Camden, so I thought I'd support my boys, support my friends and make the journey along especially. I'd made no promises to anyone, thought I'd just turn up and surprise them, but it was me that was surprised as I descended to the basement bar of the Spitalfields venue.

The doors opened at half 7, first band on at quarter to eight, it was now quarter past eight and I found myself stood in an empty room, just me and one other guy that told me through a muffled mouth of sandwich that the gig was cancelled.

'band members were underage' i just about deciphered before he swallowed.

I wandered aimlessly for a short while, hoping that a recognisable Enfieldian or two would be propping up one of a handful of nearby bars while I weighed up my options.

On any normal evening I'd have checked facebook and twitter for updates on the rather dire situation, texted or called one of my mates playing, been hopping on the train back to the more familiar and predictable surroundings of Bush Hill Park and let my girlfriend know the dealio.

Most normal evenings don't result in me nursing a pint of ale for an hour and forty minutes, sat on my own reading a book in a pub in Great Portland Street before descending down the stairs to the comic-book wallpapered lower level where my other half is among a roomful of uke players , merrily strumming away and singing their way through a songbook projected at the front of the room.

So whilst, unbeknownst to me, Decoy Jet, Building The Songbird and Echochain turn a soured experience into a show of solidarity in front of a rabid home crowd, I grabbed another drink and settled in amongst the well lubricated throng for mass singalongs of Oasis and Mumford and Sons before revealing my presence to my girlfriend.

Sure, it wasn't a normal evening, but sometimes the simple joy of the unexpected is just as rewarding.

(although all the missed instagram opportunities are killing me now)


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