Meanwhile...

Astonishingly busy lately, what with six-day working weeks and researching/prepping for a potential new job that will pretty much change my life even as it eats into what little is left of my spare time. 

For the time being, here's the traditional Tottenhamista Emergency Photo Of Debbie Harry. 

Abandoned Toys (2)

Grasping each other in the darkness as the inevitable shadow approaches. Abandoned toys. 

Three years ago...

...A post appeared on the old original Tottenhamista, recalling my first experience with the building called Union Point and how the place had been a touchstone for me during my time in this manor. 

At the time, Union Point had just been destroyed by fire during the Tottenham Riots: nothing remained but a gutted, smouldering shell. 

I walked past the site today. This is Union Point, three years on: 

Look at it. Barring the inclusion of 'penthouse' flats, it's exactly as it was when we first met.

Some will tell you that the renovation of Union Point is down to the urban regeneration funding promised by the Mayor of London after the riots. 

That's not true: The Clown Johnson and his office wanted a new design, one made of soul-free glass and steel and fake wood cladding that peels after a year or two. Haringey Council, an entity for which I have neither time nor respect and which to me is the epitome of institutionalised incompetence, for once did something laudable; they rejected The Clown's demands and insisted that Union Point be rebuilt as a modern copy of its original. 

So here it is. 

The best part? This. Even though there was no need to do so, even though the Co-operative Society has had no presence in the building or anywhere in the borough barring one shabby funeral directors further along the High Road, the council insisted on the reconstruction of this original feature: 

Welcome back, old friend. Even though there's no likelihood of CarpetRight employing a slightly chubby man in a cotton-wool beard come Winter, it's good to have you back. 

Never send a boy to do a man's job

Child endangerment laws are thankfully far tougher these days. 

Abandoned Toys (1)

Slowly sinking into the ever-encroaching green. Abandoned. 

Profraeders neded.

Remember Guys Meat Shop? This, from a little further down the same road:

I'll bet there's at least one mistake on there you'll miss on first reading. 

And yes, I've read a few old posts while I've been putting this together and Yes, the typos are leaping out at me and YES I shouldn't be criticising some other poor bastard's efforts, but nobody has to walk past a blog every sodding day like I have to walk past this poster so up yours. 

Hello there.

I’ve been away for a while. Not ‘in prison’ away, or ‘overseas’ away, just away. It’s something I have to do every now and then, maybe once a year. This time around, the need to not be here – to not be anywhere – was a lot stronger than it has been for a long time. Read between the lines if you like. You may be right. You may be wrong.

It’s very easy to disappear from the social media sphere. Stop posting on a blog and the hits fall more quickly than you’d imagine. Don’t tweet for a while; nobody notices. Facebook’s a little different: the people on your friends list might not notice you’ve not posted a cute kitten picture for a few weeks, or you’ve not ‘liked’ one of their doubtless pithy observations on life. Facebook itself, though, won’t let you go. Facebook is like a needy ex. Facebook will keep sending you emails, telling you how you were talked about, that you’ve had messages and notifications because it’s so really important that you sign in and check everything out.

I avoided Facebook for two weeks. It sent me an email every five hours. It was stalking, pure and simple. I should have notified the police.

Disappearing from the real world's not quite as easy, but it's still no effort to become as isolated as you wish to be. Don't answer the phone. Don't call your friends. Only do the things you need to do to stay alive, whatever 'alive' means to you. Everybody has other people to be concerned about, and in a few weeks you're re-classified as 'Whatever happened to...' or 'I must get back in touch with...'

For a while, I was willing, no, deliberately working towards becoming as separate as possible from the rest of the world. There were reasons, but that's not for here.

It’s time to start the long process of coming back. There are no promises; this post may be the only one for a while. There again, it may be the first in a flood of the buggers.

Let’s see, shall we?