You say potato, I say atopotatos

Not a philosophical joke (that may end up being me), but there you have it, my very first philosophy joke. Once I dream of Nietzsche (please let it be Nietzsche and not the horse*) I’ll don a black skivvy and officially launch my London Philosophy Club. Some contrast given the first club I joined O-week of '96, was the Sydney University Ski Club. nb. 1. I did not, nor have I ever attended Sydney University, and 2. I had never ever then seen snow. I thought as a student of Central Saint Martins––best renowned as a fashion school: Chalayan/McQueen/Katrantzou––I’d be inspired to up my game, but so far I’ve been either too cold, too wet, or in too much a hurry to do better than jeans and a jumper. Now my bike’s back in one bit and resigned to riding in ‘sensible cycling gear’ I’ve finally cast off any hope of becoming ‘muse’ to one of the fabulous court-shoed, be-skirted boys on the MA Fashion, as well as any pretension that this time around, university might be sartorially different to the first. But it’s definitely different.

Yesterday. The Professor: What kind of text is this?The students silent, avert their gaze. Professor: When you read this, what type of text do you think you’re reading? The students fidget, shift in their chair. Unable to bear the awkwardness brewing in the room, I come up with the most ridiculous sounding thing I can based on the essay title, which begins: 'After criticism, new responses to blah blah blah...' Me: Uh, post-critical? Prof: Interesting. So what do you think that means? Me: Do you want to ask someone less cynical? A beat. And because I realise it won’t kill me to say it… Me: The author blends theory with analogy to create an accessible, more personal entry to the text’s thesis. Give me a bucket.

So why philosophy? Good question. This time it was the mini-cab driver asking. He wasn’t the first. He was interested because he thought he sensed a return to the popularity of studies in the discipline. Astute! Though we had time and we were enjoying a healthy banter, I went with a shockingly (to me at least) simple answer. 'Well,' I said, 'the old ways of solving problems aren’t working, it may be worth thinking up some new ones.' He seemed happy with that. And I felt in that moment like there’s potential for something entirely valid in what I’m doing. And that I can still bridge both worlds if I keep my wits.

For now though, my world revolves around Dalston, where British-Caribbean culture meets East End geezer meets um, how else can I put it? art school hipster. There was nothing intentional about how I wound up here, but I love it. My place has all the modcons, like a kebabery on the corner, coffeeshop across the road and a local pub where, I have it on good authority Jarvis Cocker likes to hang out, and they play Premier League on the big screen. A few of the older warehouses in my street have been converted to artist and film studios; even Bombay Munch, my local curry house quips it’s a 'creative Indian eatery'.

*apparently Nietzsche had a bad dream that involved a horse and subsequently went mad.

In pursuit of substance, or at least, subsistence...