Living and working in Soho definitely has its perks when free time can be spent playing in this adventurous playground of colourful characters and charming old-school bars. Sundays, for me, are a precious and fleeting day that I anticipate all week long. And what better way is there to spend this particular Sunday, than by celebrating the Chinese New Year festivities in Chinatown. Alda and I share a live-in pub job at the infamous Soho boozer the Berwick Street Blue Posts, and because we live a literal stone’s throw and skip-hop away we decide to brave the fiercely cold weather, despite the forecasts for snow! I was, not so secretly, praying for the mother of all snow days to shower down upon us anyway...We walk through our neighbourhood to Chinatown, observing as the crowd thickens and
finally engulfs us into a human wave, floating slowly past the entrances to all the restaurants with their names written in gold Chinese letters. Small stalls are set up in front of the shops, while their owners sell hot food for us to eat out of carton boxes and sticky sweets like dragon beard candy made right there on the spot with a full demonstration for those who wish to listen. Other stalls display lanterns and children’s toys of all kinds, and hoards of people congregate to watch the ritual of the dancing dragon, as the streets congest with bodies. Children sit happily atop their parent’s shoulders and one small boy proudly shows off his costume of Chinese attire. 
We round a corner and come across a stage with Chinese school children performing synchronised dance routines. We stop nearby for lotus-seed pastries, a white bun with fleuro green paste - unfortunately not really my cup of tea, a bit too sickly sweet for my tastes. After purchasing some fortune cookies and checking out a few other market stands we make an escape from the world of China to the Mediterranean to rest up on strong coffees and some much needed lunch away from throng of people. Looking out the large glass windows onto Shaftsbury Avenue I notice snow begin to twirl down in rhythmic circles. It is very pretty, but quickly clears up and is replaced with sunlight beaming down to melt away the tiny sprinkles.
Alda and I missed the parade at Trafalgar Square, but manage to catch some great dances, drumming, and other shows happening. I decide to take a stroll alone down to the royal gates of the Buckingham Palace to enjoy the afternoon air as the day slips away into dusk. The sun is transforming the high gates into glowing bars of gold, as it streams through the royal strip. I meander down the grandiose avenue, becoming excited like a small child as snow starts to billow down. I could see it coming as the dark clouds rolled over from the west, and then a heavy dusting of snow covered the street, and the soft green hills turned a powdered white in the gardens surrounding the Queens estate. I love this walk, moreso for the natural scenery than the everpresent palace waiting at the end of the road.
I meet Alda at the Blue Posts on Rupert Street for some Sunday evening jazz, and we dance and listen to the resident band, ‘The Fallen Heroes’, playing their usual set to the usual crowd that gets up and boogies away, as usual! It's a really fun place and has that feeling of being transported back in time occasionally. We talk a little with the band outside while they smoke cigars and down pints of Guinness. I sip on a couple of halves of cider, before we depart to Leicester Square for the Chinese New Year fireworks!
The fireworks are lit in the garden square. Children have piled into the phone booths, edging the gates of the small park to watch. It is jam-packed on all four sides of the court. The Chinese are known for their aptitude when it comes to fireworks and we are not disappointed. I enjoy watching the reflection of all the colours splattering across the Odeon, and the final big bang echoes after in the silence. Smoke rises from the square like fog on an early morning. 
We meet later with our Canadian friend Matt and take him with us to the ‘Cellar Door’ - an unusul jazz bar in Adlwyche that perhaps would be better named "Toilet Door". The gimmick is that this classy little, mirrored lounge once used to be a set of public toilets back in the day. The entrance is barely noticeable with its small sheltered roof covering the stairs that lead you down to a big heavy door. Inside it is warm and all smiles. The bar tenders are friendly, and make fabulous cocktails. All the seats are occupied (pardon the pun) and the venue is as tiny as you could imagine an underground public urinal to be. The Cellar Door boasts some fancy toilets of its own. When you are in the loo doing your business you can see through the door the people waiting outside, although fortunately they cannot see you. It still made me too nervous to go. I had stage-fright!
We arrive in time for the music to begin with Pete Saunders, who insists he is not the resident DJ as suggested in last week’s ‘Time Out’ review. He is clearly a jazz musician playing keyboard and vocals. He introduces the magician-cum-comedian for the night, who entertains us tirelessly, with the support of audience members, in the art of card tricks and illusions! Later in the night, a women (a lady in red) - Emmanuella - who has been standing near us most the time, gets up to sing a few songs. She and her pianist friend leave the Cellar Door with us, in search of some midnight madness.
Outside the snow has been tumbling down. London has never (recently) been whiter. We walk for awhile and then scramble into a black cab, which slips and slides its way back to Soho. Roads have already been blocked so we venture further through the snow on foot to ‘Trisha’s’ on Frith Street - an inconspicuous, underground club Alda had acquainted herself with somehow. The entrance is a closed blue door to a private apartment building. After buzzing in we head downstairs to the basement and open the door to another classic Soho scene - plenty of gays, different assortments of hat-bearers, and gentlemen of all ages socialising in their natural environment. Imagine braces, walking sticks, top-hats and people so drunk they spit their words out in frothy sentences. Typical London conversations filled with anecdotes all landing in the perverse spectrum, like someone elses spittle flung on to your lips.
One such man remembered me from a rainy day in Soho many months passed, when he and a friend had ducked into my pub to escape. He was so miserable that day, down-trodden by the down-pour, and I remembered how I tried to cheer him up in conversation. He said he recalled this because it had changed his day completely. He was so intoxicated at Trishas, he seemed as out of sorts as the occasion I first met him. Matt and I danced stupidly (moreso on my part) and drank whiskies, and later we take a walk through the mounting snow in my "neighbourhood". I remember being dropped in the snow, dragged through the snow, and sleeping in the snow! It was so light and fluffy and cold!
At home very early in the morning I sleep peacefully and easily. I wake many hours later with a big smile on my face and I fling the bathroom window wide open expecting the snow to be just where I left it, only to find out that those damn snow-plough men had been through to destroy all my glory!!!!!! "I don't believe it" as grumpy Arthur Mildrew would say from ‘One Foot in the Grave’. But the forecast is on my side for at least another few days.
