InSpiral is this little place on Camden Lock, opposite the stables. The place is great for internet, guarana truffles, hippies and rockin’ the ganj. (Sorry, I tried to sound cool just then when I’m quite obviously not. It won’t happen again.)

It’s 10:34 pm, and while two hours ago I was peacefully tapping away and devouring my favourite blog of the week, I have suddenly looked up and found myself surrounded by a large, impromptu group of percussionists.

I guess they must assemble here regularly and it is in fact I who have disrupted their chi and not the other way around. This merry band of minstrels consists of one very bad female guitarist-slash-singer, three guys with very loud bongo drums, someone with something that sounds like a kazoo and a surplus of people who seem to be competing as to who can bring the most haphazardly assembled instrument that makes the least musical sound. Plus one guy who can’t seem to decide what he wants to play, and starts singing loudly at random intervals, apparently when he recognises a song he’s heard before or thinks he may know the lyrics to (he doesn’t).

The prerequisite for membership of this band seems to be having dredlocks and either an item of clothing made from hemp or a funny hat. I wonder if they held auditions.

Oh good lord. I just looked around, and I’m actually surrounded. They’ve blocked my exit. What’s a coffee-chugging, capitalism-loving super-consumer to do?