One of the things I love about London is that there is always something unexpected around the corner. En route to kill some time in Covent Garden, like Alice in Wonderland I stumbled on a party in The Photographers' Gallery. To celebrate the end of thirty-seven years in Great Newport Street and a move to new premises, fashionable arty types and Joe Public (like me) mingled in the backroom cafe chomping on free sultana scones smothered in strawberry jam, under the shadow of black and white photographs of Soho strippers. At 5 o'clock it got even more bizarre, as a performance artist with pink hair, dressed in a kimono-style outfit with giant crinoline pockets, proceeded to recite blank verse about walls whilst hammering stilletos to a wall, spraypainting letters and stepping in and out of pink plastic shopping baskets.
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