I’m not sure it is true that the invention of mobile phones is the reason we never look up. Other than John Betjeman, who I increasingly believe is the sole reason that London, in any sense of glory, still exists, I am not convinced we are a looking up kind of species. In general, we like to see where we are going, and looking down at our feet makes us feel more secure, less open to the world. And yes, nowadays we certainly do spend an inordinate amount of time glued to our handheld devices, myself included. And yes, it is a shame. But was ever thus, I think. However, it is a habit worth breaking as there is a fantastic amount of cool stuff happening above our heads….and that is my neat segue-way into Street Art Tours. Graffiti, by its very nature is counter cultural. And daring. And bold. And look-what-I-did brash. It is also controversial, political, angry, funny and increasingly mainstream. So much so that street artists recently blacked out one of Berlin’s most iconic spray painted images in response to what they see as the over gentrification of that city, and by extension, their work in it. Over to you Banksy (I am quoting). But, dear reader, this blog is not about Berlin (as much as I love it so)….it is about me, me, me and my passion love affair with London. And that includes its street art.

Up and over to Shoreditch we went to spend a few hours with Karim, a street artist himself, on a Street Art Tour. And wow was it fantastic.
We learned much, much more than the simply art of looking up, as valuable as that is. This tour includes generous doses of history and politics, some of it brutal some of it funny. All interesting. We learned you can still be arrested for graffiti, but that lots of landlords actually enjoy a bit of art on their walls. In fact, many developers invite street artists to decorate hoarding. And that the line between tagging and advertising is, no surprise really, getting mighty thin.

We learned street art is a global phenomena. The work we saw was done by people from all over the world. Men and women. Some work had stories attached, some didn’t. But what we wanted to know most of all was “how the hell did they get up there?” These people must be ninjas or circus performers. Certainly daring, maybe crazy. But not all graffiti is up or even across, some of the most fun was down. The guy who paints on discarded chewing gum. Not technically graffiti as he is defacing someone else’s rubbish, so not punishable. Fantastic, tiny pieces these. And because my life works this way, of course I got to see him in action a few weeks later on Millennium Bridge. Terribly nice man. I also met the sister of the boyfriend of one of the prominent female artists, who goes by the name ‘Gold Peg.” When I asked if she was actually spiderman because her work is in impossible places, I got only a sly smile in return. And there is a code of conduct. Some work we saw has been left unmolested by others for years. A sign of true respect. Many other artists don’t fare nearly so well and tag over tag over tag can make for a dizzying affect.

Some work is ridiculous. Huge boobs are never that perky. Nor do the girls attached always carry two guns. Some naughty. Some nostalgic. Some aren’t even painted, but made of ceramic or tile or foam or recycled materials. Some are angry. And thoughtful.   And clever, clever, clever. Though in general, the names of the “crews” are not. They should read more books. Familiarize themselves with the concept of puns and the subtle art of reference. But perhaps I ask too much. This is less art of the word rather art of concept.

And of course the personalities. And the stories. Pure Evil and his double-barreled surname. The Banksy v Robbo feud. Robbo’s fall from a ladder and his subsequent long, slow death. But my fav has to be the one about the guy who worked at Lloyds by day and expressed himself with spray paint by night. He showed his face in a documentary on graffiti and when the powers that be found out he was fired. First thing he did was get his neck and hands tattooed, guaranteeing he could never be employed in the City again. Respect. (Of course, those of you who read the Metro with the devotion I do will remember the recent exchange between all single women of London and “City boy with sleeves” and know that this doesn’t seem to be the case anymore.) But back in the day (whenever that might have been) it was. I admire this guy’s determination, even though not so keen on the neck tattoo myself.

Karim was superb. Not just in his knowledge and presentation, but his patience was saint like. Get the brains of 3 atypical Wandsworth women and their enormous pack of children stirring and it is rather like the existence of Halloween candy. Everything, all the time. Too much is never enough. More, more, more. In every direction. Not sure who was more exhausted by the end….but well satisfied we were.

For weeks after, we have been noticing and sometimes recognizing street art all round London. We’ve started looking up and out. Taking in. Observing London from different angles and viewpoints. Imitating John Betjeman’s St, Pancras statue. Can only be a good thing that.

To book your own street art tour: http://streetartlondon.co.uk/tours/

For someone who enjoys travel and exploring so much, I have an appalling sense of direction. I am a trained tour guide, for heavens sakes, and still find referring to direction using compass points stressful. “North” means nothing to me, unless I am actually standing on the Southbank gazing across the river. And reading a map? Even worse. I always feel maps are but suggestions of where I might be and where I may end up…with endless, pointless, frustrating diversions in between.

However, if you want to see me leap from my couch, map clutched in hands, desperate for the challenge, then drop themed sculptures all over London and tell me to find them. OOOh I do love a good hunt!!

I have searched for elephants and eggs and Olympic mascots, crazy hats, more eggs, book benches and currently, simultaneously hunting buses and Paddington Bears. There is something about rouding a corner, shortly after moaning aloud “it has to be here somewhere…” and seeing it there in the distance….a bus covered in painted safety pins, Paddington doffing his hat, that fills me with joy.

What is about these treasure hunts that I love so much. Well I do love a challenge. And checking things off lists. And photo opportunities. And the sense of accomplishment. And the creativity that goes into the making and

planning of both the objects and the hunt. I love the excuse to drag children all over the city. I love the moments you share with strangers. “Oh Mummy is losing the will to live,” groaned a woman next to me in St. Paul’s churchyard….and then we both saw the object of our desire and bonded over this short term happiness. “If you are looking for the Paddington, he is right round the corner,” a young woman told us, clearly noticing the glazed desperate look in my eyes as I clutched the increasingly creased map. She has never heard such effusive thanks.

Of course it is vital that you have at least one child in tow. This not only makes the photography more acceptable, but creates the impression that you are on some sort of cultural outing.

And there are practical benefits. The only way I can begin to find my way round the West End (does no street run straight?) is that I spent hours and hours and hours trying to find the eggs, making endless navigational mistakes. And there are the unexpected moments. I would never have met the chewing gum graffiti man on Millennium Bridge had we not been in pursuit of 2 Paddingtons and 4 buses.

These hunts are, of course, largely fundraising exercises. I had a unnerving experience, years ago, when I boldly bid on an egg in order to be invited to the “supporters” party at Covent Garden. I felt quite sure I would be quickly outbid. But I wasn’t. Not for days and days and days. In fact it went down to the wire, with only hours to go before the auction ended. Was already well into planning the groveling,  explanation speech for husband when some angel from heaven offered more money. The relief was overwhelming.  That said….I do quite fancy having a bus…..

What are you waiting for? Download that map. Grab the nearest child and any photographic device and get out here with me. A great way to explore the city!

“Come visit us, we blow every day,” whispered the charming, dapper artist and gallery owner, Peter Layton. How could I resist an offer like that? And so I was introduced to what has become one of my favourite London haunts. London Glassblowing on Bermondsey Street, not far from London Bridge. Who would have thought that in one of the busiest parts of this busy, busy city is a studio where beautiful, delicate things are made in much the same way they have for hundreds of years. With strength, fire, imagination and a whole lot of patience a burning liquid metamorphasises into something extraordinary.   The process is mesmerizing to watch, for children and adults alike. And the artists, men and women, are always willing to explain, describe and show off their talent. It is like seeing alchemists at work. The furnaces burn hot, hot and time just slips away.

I have spent many a happy hour just sitting and watching the magic happen.

The gallery, in front of the studio, winks at you from the street, especially later in the day. Full of shining, twinkling, fragile bits of beauty. Gallery assistants, Rushka and James greet visitors with enthusiasm. The atmosphere is simultaneously calm and charged with creativity. There is an otherworldly quality to it all. Which makes leaving and returning to the outside hustle and bustle a bit of a shock.