The 12 Labours...

Blink and you may have missed it. No, not the only ray of sunshine in an English summer or the forward advance of a French army but the flash of inspiration that led me to challenge myself into *** shock! horror! *** doing something new every single month of this glorious year 2008, my very own 12 Labours. With neither the Cretan Bull nor the Erymanthian Boar being available for re-capture, my tasks have had to be rather more mundane.

April 2008: discover and conquer a new borough of London, this month and every month until the end of the year...

Me new mucker Sazzo - whose fantastic description of her home borough "a place-name crossed between a cliched expression and the charming sound of pleghm" so accurately describes it - suggested going to a politically supercharged free carnival, Love Music Hate Racism. In Hackney. Not Hackney-upon-Thames, a name that might suggest lollipops and balloons, but Hackney, the name presumably coming from ancient pirate dialect, "Arrrrrr, you be 'anding over 'at doubloon Cap'n, or we be playin' a game of Hack-Knee", as the swinging cutlass swooshing through the air turned a two-player game into a one-winner game.

And so I set off for the Wild East, iPod in pocket and supersized dose of apprehension in my mind. Five years of West London snobbery have instilled a deep-seated belief that the rails of the District Line bend downwards at Aldgate East into the deepest pits of Hell itself, or worse still, Essex. Apparently this is not the case.

Getting on the Tube at Hammersmith, I found myself sitting opposite two girls - clearly sisters - with acutely emotive expressions on their faces as they talked to each other. Poignant looks such as I had never seen before, they fascinated me. I was so moved yet curious at the same time at what seemed like such raw emotion, what terrible news could they possibly be discussing? I felt like an intruder even looking at them and so decided to take things one step further. As I took out my earphones to eavesdrop more effectively, I was truly surprised as the first words I was able to make out were "Shall we get off here or at the next one?" in the most beautiful London accent one could possibly hope to hear. Aaahh, the joys of a fertile imagination. No prizes who would be at the other end of the line if you dialled 1-800-DULLANECDOTE...

To be totally fair to Hackney, there was more chance of being killed by a paper cut from the neverending stream of anti-BNP flyers being handed out than anything else (during the hours of daylight anyway). It was a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon. The fascinating political undercurrent mixed with the palpable appreciation of a free event of this magnitude being organised made it a trip well worth making. Predictably, the loudest cheer of the afternoon went to the sun, as he peaked a hesitant, then confident look from behind his cloud and warmed our souls for the last hour...