Jump up, get down...

Some important news, I have sorted a place to stay. A room in Kelly's flat has become available and I have signed up. So, I have somewhere to live that fits my budget for the eight weeks I can survive without a job, and then (because I am totally expecting to get a job) I can work out whether I need to move to another part of London etc etc. Brilliant. Also, it will be nice to live with a friend for those first weird weeks.

So, having sorted that out yesterday, Kelly and I and my soon-to-be-flatmates Jeremy and Karen headed to the Notting Hill Carnivale about noon. The Carnivale is Carribean based, but seems to have segued to South American as well...

The first thing that hit me when we arrived was how gorgeous the houses are, and that all the windows of shops and front porches are boarded up. Apparently, that magic English combination of people and beer has caused some trouble in the past. Everywhere we walked it was the same - it was a really strong reminder that this is a much bigger country with some strange behaviours...

Soon enough we found our first collection of stalls. The Carnivale is set up with food and sound stages clumped together every few blocks. The stalls and music are all quite similar so it is weirdly repetitive, yet new, every few corners. It is a very big neighourhood, and lots of the locals have moved out for the weekend. Others are making a killing charging women £1 for the loo.

The police presence is very obvious. Since that big football disaster when all those people died, police have taken crowd safety really seriously- and it shows. Everywhere we went there were steel and human barriers keeping crowds down and people apart. So, in spite of the masses of people (200,000 in the course of the day) it didn't feel too crowded for the first while.

Kelly and I got in the Carribean mood with Jamacian beer (which was REALLY good) and jerk chicken. The chicken is made spicy with the authentic combination of sweet chilli sauce, ketchup, vinegar and HP. It was quite filling, but not amazing.

We then stumbled across a parade route and stood still for a long time in the hot sun to see a very disappointing assortment of lorries with corporate sponsorship types displaying their inner-Jamaican. Not pretty, so we moved on to rum punch - which cheered me right up.

The music and crowds were getting louder, and Kelly and I found some good places to dance. We saw a few more parades, and fought the temptation to join in on the percussion and samba ones. In fact, these were my favourite kinds of displays. I stopped to look at a few dance troupes, and they were all amazing, but we clearly missed the real action - I heard from fellow hostellers that dancers in other parades were often being pulled apart by security personnel to stop them bumping and grinding in front of the children.

Eventually the sun, drink and walking took its toll and Kelly and I headed off. in the perfect example of British logic the closest Tube station was shut, and the other closest line was down for maintenence. So, we walked and walked and walked past more stalls and stages (including Jamaicans for Jesus - an eye opening combo of hip hop, dub and prayer...) and finally found a Tube we could use.

The prospect of another night's sleep in my noisy, creaky hostel room was a bit much, and Kelly kindly let me crash at her place again. We got kebabs (with chips, of course) and were asleep by half past nine. Tomorrow I am going to have a rest day.