Since moving into our new place in Dalston, my flatmate and I have been kept consistently entertained by the high grade people-watching available on our lovely balcony. It's rather unexpected, as the view from our flat doesn't overlook a particularly interesting space, certainly not the type of place where one would predict so much intriguing activity. Tucked behind bustling Kingsland Road, the street leads to a back exit from Dalston Junction station, offering no shops or amenities, only serving as a transitional resting spot for buses at the end of their routes. It's dull, grey and an utterly boring piece of urban landscape.
Yet apparently this street has some kind of strange magnetic pull. It's where drunken weekend warriors come to keep the party alive at the end of the night. It's where construction workers come to tuck into their sandwiches and pick their noses. It's where gangs of predictably on-trend Dalston skate dudes come to practice kick flips and compare snap back hats for hours. One time we actually witnessed a couple having sex on this street, rhythmically gyrating in a sea of bland concrete.
But by far the most intriguing character of the balcony viewing show is a mysterious man we have affectionately named Bobo. Bobo comes to visit every single day, usually around 5pm, armed only with a black plastic bag containing a single Kronenberg and a packet of cigarettes. He always sit in exactly the same place, in exactly the same way, quietly drinking exactly the same beer while staring blankly into space, usually for about four hours.
Our fascination with Bobo and his little routine has somehow morphed into the obsessive, inducing hours of speculation on who he is, what he does, where he comes from, and the nature of his vapidly underwhelming simplicity. Why does he come here? What does he think about for four hours every day? Bobo doesn't listen to any music, he doesn't read newspapers, he doesn't compulsively check twitter or mass snapchat generic selfies like the rest of us do the second we are left to our own devices. He certainly doesn't have anything nice to look at. He just sits, sips, smokes and stares.
As we pick apart everything from his clothing to his posture to his visiting hours, his frustratingly inscrutable demeanour has rendered him a kind of celebrity in our social circle. I can't help but wonder if he has any clue how much time and mental exertion we've dedicated to him. I'm not sure if he can feel our collective gazes boring into his being, and hear our calculated hypothesising about whether he is homeless, a drug dealer, an undercover MI6 agent, or just a father of twelve who dreads the domestic pandemonium that awaits him after his working day as a Phones4U marketer.
Bobo is so uninteresting that he is fascinating. He probably comes to our street to be alone, but ironically he's become the subject of intense character analysis and amateur detective work. Our relationship with him is distanced yet strangely intimate. I may have to start keeping some kind of record of his behaviour and begin mapping out the clues that could lead to his identification. I think I'm going to start trying to figure out Bobo's deal. It might be a weirdly neurotic decision, but maybe by the end I'll learn how to achieve the kind of impenetrable zen that Bobo seems to channel every single day.
Yet apparently this street has some kind of strange magnetic pull. It's where drunken weekend warriors come to keep the party alive at the end of the night. It's where construction workers come to tuck into their sandwiches and pick their noses. It's where gangs of predictably on-trend Dalston skate dudes come to practice kick flips and compare snap back hats for hours. One time we actually witnessed a couple having sex on this street, rhythmically gyrating in a sea of bland concrete.
But by far the most intriguing character of the balcony viewing show is a mysterious man we have affectionately named Bobo. Bobo comes to visit every single day, usually around 5pm, armed only with a black plastic bag containing a single Kronenberg and a packet of cigarettes. He always sit in exactly the same place, in exactly the same way, quietly drinking exactly the same beer while staring blankly into space, usually for about four hours.
Our fascination with Bobo and his little routine has somehow morphed into the obsessive, inducing hours of speculation on who he is, what he does, where he comes from, and the nature of his vapidly underwhelming simplicity. Why does he come here? What does he think about for four hours every day? Bobo doesn't listen to any music, he doesn't read newspapers, he doesn't compulsively check twitter or mass snapchat generic selfies like the rest of us do the second we are left to our own devices. He certainly doesn't have anything nice to look at. He just sits, sips, smokes and stares.
As we pick apart everything from his clothing to his posture to his visiting hours, his frustratingly inscrutable demeanour has rendered him a kind of celebrity in our social circle. I can't help but wonder if he has any clue how much time and mental exertion we've dedicated to him. I'm not sure if he can feel our collective gazes boring into his being, and hear our calculated hypothesising about whether he is homeless, a drug dealer, an undercover MI6 agent, or just a father of twelve who dreads the domestic pandemonium that awaits him after his working day as a Phones4U marketer.
"What is life?"
Bobo is so uninteresting that he is fascinating. He probably comes to our street to be alone, but ironically he's become the subject of intense character analysis and amateur detective work. Our relationship with him is distanced yet strangely intimate. I may have to start keeping some kind of record of his behaviour and begin mapping out the clues that could lead to his identification. I think I'm going to start trying to figure out Bobo's deal. It might be a weirdly neurotic decision, but maybe by the end I'll learn how to achieve the kind of impenetrable zen that Bobo seems to channel every single day.
