Gay Camberwell

By Roz.

I’ve been waiting all week for the weekend.  And not just because it gives me a respite from not filling in that job application that has been sitting on my desk…  It’s started well, with a relatively early departure from work to go flat hunting.   Any views on the merits or otherwise of living in Myatts Fields?  We’ve been very unenthuisatic (because it does seem a fair trek into Camberwell proper – is there anywhere to buy a pint of milk, even?) but last night we went to see a flat in a monastery and are now tempted…

Whilst part of me wanted to spend the evening googling “Myatts Fields”, we resisted that temptation for the lure of the east, and went over to Persepolis (“a taste of Persia in Peckham”).  It’s a shop I’ve cycled past many a time, and been curious about.  Discovering that they had a storytelling night (part of Peckham Literary Festival, but in fact something which seems to happen quite regularly anyway) I enlisted Layla and a few of our friends and booked us all places.  I became a fan of storytelling nights a few years ago (living in a different city, and just round the corner from a venue which had regular storytelling slots) and this enthusiasm was reawakened in NYC, when Layla and I went to a night called The Moth.  That said, its something that I anticipate could be quite cringe-worthy if not done well.  So, whilst waiting for it to start, we wandered round the shop nervously, gazing at the baklava hopefully.  It wasn’t like any of the storytelling nights I’ve been to previously.  The stories I’ve heard before have been modern – and true – whereas these were tales of the east, fairy tales, almost.  But it was rather fantastic actually.  The storyteller – Sally Pomme Clayton (who lives in Peckham and intriguingly seems to have recently done a gig at No 11 Downing Street) – created a magical atmosphere.  Quite remarkable, especially given the profusion of buses and sirens which passed on the road behind her.   Mind you, she seemed somewhat disappointed by the audience (mainly comprised of middle class thirty-somethings) who were (me included) reluctant to bring out any tales of our own…

From here, we headed back to Camberwell and over to the Grand Union.  And thus – with all the fusion décor there – didn’t quite leave the Orient…  We’d reserved our judgment on our first, jet-lagged, visit to the Grand Union.  But our verdict is in: the Grand Union is a fine addition to the Camberwell scene.  We spent the evening drinking cocktails –mohitos and brambles – and both were excellent.  Not as strong as those in Bar Story, mind you, but that’s probably a good thing (and means that I am able to type this at a fairly early hour on Saturday, whilst Layla sleeps the sleep of the just…or whatever the phrase is).  Friends of friends turned up – members of the wonderful Camberwell Composers Collective – and we swopped tales.  And recommendations.  I waxed lyrical about Whirled Cinema and the Red Gate Gallery and its private viewings, and they of the Chinese restaurant next to Caravaggios.  It was an excellent evening.  With just enough of the Orient to make me forget all about filling in a job application form.  Though I must confess to a little google of "Myatts Fields" when we got home...