a pretty good day.

Early wake up with phone calls and buzzes and there's folks on the sofa and an invite for breakfast where there's beans and squishy skipped bananas and ach - we'll make a plan on the way. Wobbling bikes lugging cardboard gun, wedding dress, banana skins, bouquets of wilting flowers and a fat suit.
First stop the bank, where there's an organised protest – placards and leaflets and a megaphone and in we go without a thought and blag and blah and ask the questions that they can't answer until we're firmly escorted out.
I wanna do something but I don't know what.
There's a samba band around the corner – Let's get 'em round here.
I'm bored. Let's buy loo roll and throw it in. Let's write messages on it.
Let's go.
Catch youse soon.

That shop window's got a door in - we just have to dodge the guard - catch him off guard.
OK, hold my gun - let's go. One by one we step, grinning into the readymade playground.
I pull down my new-man-the-mannequins trendy trousers and hold his hand and ask the gathering crowd: “SHOPPING IS...?”
“That's the police on the way”.
“SHOPPING IS...SEXY?
“You'll have to leave now”
“SHOPPING IS...BORING.”
And off we go and it must be time to distribute these flowers salvaged from the bins in all their cellophane glory. We shower the band with confetti and dance along to find those most deserving of the flowers.
A couple parting – here, you get him, I'll get her – say they're from each other.
Another guard. But he wont have it – he's got his image to think about.
And then there's folk in the window – wedding dress and fat suit, telling a strange love story of super bargains.
We chat to the guy who's visiting from Nigeria. He says "if it looks too good to be true, it probably is", but eventually he accepts the flowers and as far as we know they brought him no ills. He can't imagine that we'd ever make our way to Nigeria on our bikes, but he certainly likes the sound of us trying.
After some negotiation the bargain bride and bulging companion are released from the shop with no more than a strained groin and a confused shop-manager. BHS has never known such excitement.
On then, on.

GIVE BLOOD says the sign and so we obey - “can you keep moving round please”. Each time a chair becomes free we move camp. Dresses and fat-suits and crumpled guns and all. This is very important, despite the fact that there's nobody waiting behind us.
Giving blood isn't as simple as it seemed.
The tricky questionnaire filters most of us out but I scrape through and leave a pint of myself behind.
Then it's on to McGills for karaoke (and replacing those lost fluids) but it's a no-goer so we creep underground for the free preview and out for the trudge home.
May as well lets stick our heads in the bin eh? And the trudge home is harder but merrier with bags of food to share out over tea and snoozes and banging loud crazy tunes. And in the background there's bikes to be fixed, sculptures to be made, friends to be met, dogs to be walked and then the party to fill the night.
That was a pretty good day by the way.
(Though we never did find a use for that cardboard gun).