I fucking love Notting Hill Carnival.

But I feel like you never really hear about the very best bits. We’ve all read the papers, we’ve all seen the Met Police having a dance off, and yeah the floats and music are good. But here are a few of the other, lesser reported highlights.

1. You get to wee in other people’s houses

Forget portaloos. Got a pound? Step this way to the VIP toilets, my friend: Flat 29, first door on the left, it’s like a big west London-wide game of Through the Keyhole.

<note to self: insert clever pun about “don’t spend a penny, spend a pound” here>

2. You can rave everywhere and anywhere

There’s no need to restrict yourself to the space behind the floats or soundsystems – when the Carnival’s in town, the only reason that fence, wall, bus stop, or DHL truck exists is to cater for the rhythmic swaying of your ass. So get up high. Your city demands it.

3. The kerb is your friend

Sitting on the kerb with a box of curry and a drink is usually a sign that you’re too drunk to get into Dalston Superstore, but this isn’t the case at Carnival. If you’re hammering back jerk chicken and pausing only to sip booze from a glass adorned with feathers that match your splendid headdress, then it’s time to reacquaint yourself with the pavement. Just, err mind the broken glass.

4. String vests are actively encouraged

Against the backdrop of west London’s grayest estates, the brighter your clothing the better. Want to wear feathers? The bigger the bird, the better. A crop top? Get it all out. Nothing but a loin cloth and a string of beads? You do that, my man. That string vest languishing at the back of your wardrobe? This is your time. This is also the only time you can legitimately borrow a policeman’s hat without getting arrested. Apparently. Rumour has it. Not that I’d know.

5. The residents (mostly) love it. Don’t they?

We were trying to weigh up whether Notting Hill residents love it when the Carnival happens, or if they all get a bit “oh, for gods sake, why are all these people urinating in my porch when there’s a perfectly good loo inside for £1 and also I can’t hear what’s happening on Coronation Street”. If this picture’s anything to go by: I reckon it’s a bit of both.

Here’s hoping it doesn’t rain, that we all get to pat a police dog and everyone has an excellent time.

Bring it on, you massive Carnival. 

We’re a pretty lucky bunch us Londoners, aren’t we?

You get to the weekend and everything’s just there. On your doorstep. Waiting to be visited, seen and monkeyed about with minutes from home.

But sometimes even the most stalwart North Londoner has to venture out of her stomping ground and onto the Victoria line… southbound.

It was about time for my biannual trip to south London, so last Sunday I broke my sofa + hangover tradition and went down to Brixton Splash to see some friends who call that bit of town their home.

(Mental.)

Beers were produced from a rucksack, and we found a patch of grass by Windrush Square where we settled down for a good old game of catch up.

It also turned out to be the perfect spot to watch the (ever diverse) world go by.

So there we were. The sun was out, the drinks were flowing and the sound of heavy basslines reverberated through the streets.

After a while the beer supplies were running low, so we took our cue and wondered off in the direction of the music.

And would you believe it – a few other people had had exactly the same idea.

There’s a lot of talk about the regeneration of areas like Brixton – the streets, shops, markets and housing that have been redeveloped to make way for the moneyed masses.

When it comes to all that, I’m sitting firmly on the fence. To be perfectly honest, it’s the only place you can sit when you have a blog and live in Dalston.

But wherever you stand on the matter, it’s on days like this – sun beaming, soundsystems booming, streets bursting – that the little flat you rent above a burger shop on Atlantic Road probably pays for itself.

…rooftop rave, anyone?

For the rest of us down below, there was only one thing to do.

Put on your 1999 garage face, join the crowds and ‘ave a little dance.

After all that drinking, dancing and bumping into old friends – a girl’s gotta eat.

This part of town’s got artisan food wrapped up, Instagrammed and served with a brioche bun these days – who’d have thought a place called “Champagne + Fromage” would one day make Brixton its home? – but this wasn’t a day for the comforting posh-nosh and BYOs of the Village.

When a community’s out in force, you’ve only got to follow your nose to find your next meal.

But the only problem with hankering after Caribbean food is that it tends to run on Caribbean time.

“When’s it going to be ready?” we asked, again and again.

The chef was adamant.

And that was the end of that.

(Trust me, if we’d had three hours to spare – it smelt like it would have been worth the wait.)

With the clock heading towards 6pm, we wondered back to Windrush Square before the soundsystems closed and the crowds started to make their way home.

And there by the Portaloos lay proof that sometimes, the excitement of the day can just be all too much for some.

And with that, we went back to our separate sides of London to get ready for work the next day; another weekend done.

London in the summer – why would you want to be anywhere else?