Brick Lane.

I ought, I think, to apologise for disappearing. As you may have heard, I ran into a spot of trouble. Having been kicked out of Cardiff, of all places, for threatening to conspire with bees might do wonders for self mythologisation, but it wasn't the best thing for my writing. So, at the behest of my infinitely kind and wise mother, I will do what I can to summarise my adventures of the past month.

I'll continue where I left off, in London:

We felt as if we ought to go to the British Museum or the Victoria and Albert, but Gareth insisted that we go to Brick Lane. "Where are we going," the German boys kept asking, "and why?"

"We think they're shops?" Corinne half explained from our seat at the top and front of the bus. "We aren't sure. Gareth just said it was the one thing he recommended we do."

We found our way there through that combination of the kindness of strangers and blind luck on which travellers manage to get anywhere. First we found a collection of restaurants all bearing declarations of the receipt of multiple awards. One boasted of having the best curry on the street in 2003 and the best chef in 2007. But the commendations didn't seem particularly exciting, as all of the shops on that block made such claims, shuffling the awards between one another with each passing year. I enjoyed the conceit greatly. Men stood in the doors, waiting for us to slow down slightly, pouncing on us and offering a cheaper meal than we could find at one of their competitors if we did. All of the restaurants offered much the same lunch, and the same discounted price.

Once inside the market, however, we found that we'd arrived on the correct day. First there was food. The first half of the large hall was packed, every bit of space filled with exotic chefs and their wares, usually not only foreign but actually thoroughly unfamiliar. All of it was colourful and cheap. We explored every stall before making our selections and then gathered outside to sit on the curb with the rest of the mob while we ate. I'm still not sure what kind of food it was that I enjoyed so much, only that it was excellent, that there was a lot of it, and that it barely cost anything, a rarity for that city.

The back half of the hall and the roads and alleyways that snaked away from it were filled with more stalls, and the stalls with art, vintage clothing, and other interesting little objects. And the people there were gorgeous. I've never seen so many cravats in one room in my life. I've certainly never seen them worn well by anyone, let alone a few dozen attractive creatures, in their twenties. Friends in Philadelphia, I believe I mentioned that the world does not dress up as we do. Brick Lane was a clear exception to this rule. I considered attempting to create diplomatic alliances between them and us. These were people who understood the importance of the waistcoat. Corinne laughed as I found what was apparently my homeland: strangers asked to take my picture, including one with an appropriately important looking camera who claimed to be taking it for a Japanese street fashion magazine. The owner of a stall selling clothing he'd designed asked me if I'd model his work. That I was aware that the attention was more than a little absurd didn't stop me from enjoying it immensely.

I believe that was the night that Corinne and I decided to make a vegetable pie from scratch, severely underestimating exactly how much time this might take. We laughed a lot, pounding flour and butter together and chopping vegetables. We thought the process great fun, even if everyone else eventually gave up and found something else to eat. She's an academic. I enjoyed having one around to talk to again immensely, especially one who cares about much of the same theory I do, tangles of gender and class and race. We talked a great deal, and ate a fantastic pie just before one in the morning.