'Yes you can... Lomography in Spitalfields is your place. Just give them a call and see'.
Jonathan knew where to get anything; paint to match the wall I sprayed ink over; the little widget that dropped out of the tap the day I tried to change the washer without turning off the water; my Mum's Lladro shepherdess that went to guard frolicking lambs in heaven during a particularly exciting teenage party; weed at the most inopportune times and, in this case, a genuine, honest to God Polaroid camera... one of those instant film jobbies that once promised to bring revolution to photography and first put pornography into the hands of the amateur snapper without a darkroom. And in that moment, my last defense fell, kindling the first spark of excitement between my thighs and forcing me to squeeze my legs together. In that moment I knew we would really do it.
'Urban Exploration' we used to call it. A pretentious way of saying 'going places we're not supposed to go to' and it was the favourite pass-time of our anarchic branch of the university Climbing Club. A ghostly, abandoned mental hospital with rusty beds and curtains flapping in the breeze from windows as shattered as the minds of the patients who used to live in it; a former tram tunnel once used as a storage warehouse for old files; an abandoned listening station with huge concrete ear-trumpets to magnify the sound of aircraft engines beyond the horizon; and our piece de resistance... an abandoned tube station complete with war-time posters and blitz-vintage graffiti. If we needed to abseil or climb to reach our target, so much the better. Each success marked by having a picnic at the object of our goal and leaving our own piece of commemorative graffiti. But now we were going to go up... up to the top of a roller coaster and our calling card was to be a Polaroid photograph of me having nookie with one of the guys. No, of course that bit wasn't my idea... but I have to confess to a certain dampness every time I objected. And up to that point, no one had actually defined what 'nookie' was, especially 'nookie' at the top of a roller coaster.
Reese Witherspoon did it of course... at least, it looked like she did it on the film; fingers between her thighs and lights flashing orgasmically as the train careered over the last hump on the track sending the riders into screaming paroxysms of thrill. But Reese was riding the train; Reese was strapped safely in her seat; Reese had her fingers under her skirt... just her fingers under her skirt. Did she have knickers on? Did she feel the motion of the car jiggle her fingertips against her most intimate places or did she squeeze tightly and hold on, letting the violence of the ride push her over the edge? Or was it really just the magic of cinema, the trick of the camera, clever direction sowing the seeds of belief and erotic excitement in my mind? The images coursed through my head and as I swung my leg at last over the highest parapet; lights twinkling below and stars twinkling above but utter, utter darkness all around me, I decided Reese had the better idea.
