Japanese rope bondage at Bound in Camberwell

I wake up with cramp and drop my deodorant down the lavatory, proving my unfitness to be tied and to tie.

Going by the tea ceremony, I guessed there'd be rules for the rope jam. It's like origami with a body - transforming it into different shapes. Boned and rolled. Spatchcocked.

The ties are deft, neat; the girls malleable, yelpy. The best operators are fast and clever moves win applause.


Peter shows me his ropes - eight metres long, bought off the internet. The jute one feels as if it might burn, but he assures me not. The hemp one is paler, thicker, softer, feels faintly tacky like sheep's wool and smells farm-yardy. His favourite. He kindly cuts a few inches off this rope so I can dip it in ink and draw with it.

Clover gives a pep-talk for beginners about health and safety. Think about your rigor, she says. As in mortis? Or rigour of the pursuit? No, it's rigger. Take up references. Mention any health problems. Especially neurological ones. Don't skip breakfast. Communicate. Carry scissors. Standard management stuff.

Music throughout. A surprising amount of Simon and Garfunkel. Asturias by Albeniz (John Williams's performance) and Schubert's Ave Maria (Elly Ameling?) will never be the same again. So, this is my night of drawing at Bound at the Flying Dutchman in Camberwell.