…the block party

the music began at around five in the afternoon. Maybe earlier. We could hear its stuttering start from the back garden. Indistinct chat and thundering bass, the sound reflecting between the sets of flats making it tricky to pin down. Especially difficult as, on a clear day, the cheers and boos from the Spurs ground drift the three miles West and settle in our corner of North London; and some Alexandra Palace outdoor events sound like a village fete tannoy system from the next road.

As the afternoon wore on the volume and timbre of the music changes, from slow and steady with occasional introductions and shout outs, we verge into a genuine soundsystem vibe. At eight, on emptying the recycling, into the big green bin out front, the sound, emptied of refraction, can clearly be heard coming from the flats opposite. I shuffle towards it in my slippers, bedshorts and hoody.

The party is in full swing. A man passes by me having clearly been pissing in the bin area. Another guy, red cup in hand and shod in sliders tries to catch up with two laughing kids through the playground. Pockets of mostly black men and women in their teens, twenties and thirties, stand around dancing and chatting, drinking and queueing for the bbq, the char-grilled smell from which is billowing across the car park and drawing people in like Yogi Bear to a picnic basket.

And I stand on the side. Unsure what to do or even what I want to do. Part of me is glad it’s going on. Part of me wants to walk in and have a beer. Part of me hopes that it stops before the early hours. I look down at my slippers and scuff myself home and listen through an open bedroom window.