Of children and sweet shops

"What in the name of God happened?!"

"I don't know! One minute she was calmly telling me her landlady's internet is out again, the next she was curled up on the floor in a foetal position muttering nonsense."

"Wait, wait, wait...was the failure of internets before or after she'd got next weekend planned?"

"Ah, I think she was going on about not knowing the route for the Notting Hill carnival..."

"I wouldn't worry, it's London performance anxiety."

"What?"

"It's very simple. Any and all indicators that she may not be making the most of each and every waking second in London is sure to induce a bit of existential anxiety. She grew up on a farm in the middle of mountains. Plopping her in the middle of London but taking away the resources to plan to see all of it is tantamount to pushing a child into a sweetie shop and telling them it's closing in thirty seconds."

"So what do we do?"

"This..."

<Bamboleo, bambolea, porque mi vida yo la prefiero vivir así...">

And as the pulsating Latin rhythms of my alarm clock jerks me into wakefulness I realise it has all been a horrible dream. Except it hasn't and the internet is still kaputski. But I'm not panicking. Starbucks, as ever, got my back, Jack...

As you very clever people may have figured out a lot has happened in almost two weeks and I have been very remiss in not blogging. But then again I am now a juene professionale as they don't say in Paris and I have started my first proper job. It won't be featuring in the blog. The blog is about making the most out of living in one of the largest, most vibrant cities in the world and writing about it and for it and not my days at the office. I am, however, in love with my job. The dopey kind of love where you smile when you think about him/her and feel that feeling of the first sip of hot chocolate when its snowing outside. Blah di blah di fuckitty blah... Enough sentiment.

I am also a year older and not very much wiser. We had a wonderful time at my birthday. I'm sure that's a fair statement, they all seemed happy. I, however, had had a more wonderful time than most and was carted to friends' home through the winding warrens around Brick Lane, stumbling most disgracefully and schlurring my wuurrds like Sean Connery after a head injury.

Good clean fun.

It is with great regret and no small amount of distress that I must inform you all of the sad and untimely demise of Fucking Nuisance, our small rabbit friend. Departed this vale of tears 10/08/2013. My fucking birthday.

I got that dress from the market. It was well lush. I were all dressed up, war paint on and ready to go out on the lash when I thought I'd check up on little FN and see if she (for it was a she, don't worry I didn't interfere with it, we found that out off landlady's friend) was okay and well fed.

I found her, lying there, as if in sleep but for eyes open; seeing not this world but rather some far off plain beyond what we ourselves can know.  She looked somehow smaller in death and a hush was over that little hutch, a hush that could not be explained by mere absence of  little snuffles and rustlings. It was altogether more eerie and definite.

The fucking point is that the sodding little bugger was belly up and I'm going to fucking have to tell my landlady that someone has cocked up massively and her little bunnikins is dead as a sodding doornail.

I don't know if anyone noticed but I get sweary and non-PC when distressed...

It wasn't anything we had done! There were frantic phone call summits to this effect and the fear of autopsies and independent reviews conducted by duly appointed watchdogs hanging over us.

It was grand, turns out she was hundreds of years old. But we still had to dispose of her legally and safely, you can't just pop rabbits in bin-bags, leave 'em outside and hope for the best, you know.

Check these facts out.

It costs £56 for a vet to dispose of a rabbit.

You can't just wing it, decide to bury it and dig down in a city garden because you might hit anything from gas mains to phone lines...apparently.

It's different in the country. Daddy was/is a farmer, a very good one, and once he told me did I know that not one lamb had died in Northern Ireland that year.

I said how the fuck could that be? (Except I didn't swear in front of my lovely Daddy...)

He said that every time an animal dies you're supposed to fill out all these forms and pay the Department of Agriculture to come and safely dispose of it.

But farmers have acres of land, not a lot of money and all the work time that self employment allows (sunrise to sunset) so they bury the lambs and that's that.

I was unfamiliar with the dead rabbit in a city situation. Not the council's job, that's only if it's in a public place. Not the RSPCA, they're more in the business of tending to the sick and wounded fauna. It seemed to be solely on us to take care of the rabbit... And not in a Mother Teresa way.

We were saved from any further stress by our landlady's friend turning up and doing the needful. I never did ask what became of FN...

Enough talk of dead rabbits, no matter how hilarious/distressing the matter may be!

In other news the flirtation with George Alagiah has come to a natural end with work resulting in me only being able to catch the enigmatic and dashing Jon Snow on Channel 4 at 7pm. George was flirting a bit too enthusiastically with the slutty weather-girl anyway. And Jon Snow does have those ties.

We're not going to talk about older men and my TV schedule anymore as some revelations about my predilection for PM Question Time resulted in sustained and unfair mockery. For shame, you know who you are...

We are going to talk about the wonderful and highly recommended Alternative London Tour of Shoreditch/Brick Lane which brought the amazing street art to life and was well good.

It's free! Free!! Well, a pay-what-you-feel-it's-worth, but when you're waiting on your first end-of-the-month paycheque the only remuneration you can afford is usually a handshake.

We saw such amazing artwork. Huge cranes and stork in exquisite detail. Artists who had flown to London's East End from Brazil and Puerto Rico and China and South Africa and had left veritable works of art on streets for everyone to enjoy.

There were Lego-style Luke Skywalkers, scattered Space Invaders, entwined lovers formed of interlocking ribbons of paint, caricature Del Boys, epic fantasy landscapes and deep philosophical statements. Every one of them could have been hung in the Tate Modern and indeed many artists HAD been featured in the high halls of fame. But they loved street art and they kept it up.

I would have paid a fiver just for this one bit of information.

Remember Spitalfields? The market? And why on earth was it called Spitalfields? I'll tell you now...

In the 1650's French Protestant Huguenots were fleeing persecution in Catholic France. They fled to the Roman-walled city of London seeking asylum. They weren't allowed within the city walls but were granted fields around the City as amnesty. These fields were used to build temporary accommodation and artillery ranges but primarily they were used as field hospitals to treat the ill and injured.

Hospital fields.

Spitalfields.

But enough for now! Speaking of culture, next week is a bank holiday weekend which hasn't meant so much since school. And I am looking forward to both Notting Hill carnival and visiting St Paul's and the Tate Modern. Vive la culture!

And vive the building of experience and expertise. One cannot write about nothing after all.

And soon we'll have to think about proper writing.

But until then, London awaits some more!

xo

"The higher the buildings, the lower the morals..."

Come! Come!  The night is young and there is much to see...

Boy howdy does a lot happen when you're not expecting it! Whereas all I could present to you four days ago was an a hand job at 20,000 ft we now have a veritable smorgasbord of occurrences and happenings that it is my pleasure (my extremely narcissistic pleasure) to document.

I'm back in Starbucks. I buy a filter coffee for £1.50 and furtively rescue the marshmallow Rice Krispie bar lurking at the bottom of my bag and hope no one says anything as I nibble it. No one ever does but all it takes is one beleaguered employee in a green apron whose girlfriend told him that "you're just not the man I want to spend the rest of my life with" last night and is itching for a fight but was never any good on sports days and so instead takes sadistic pleasure in throwing me out for bringing in outside food. He probably has low self esteem.

I'm projecting this all on name-tag David. He looks the type.

Any way, I'm here again because of the wish to save the internets that came with the dongle I got offa Vodaphone. Dongle. Sounds a bit rude. Wayhey...

Not that I didn't try to get the blasted internet working at home. Landlady's away for her holidays so it was just me poking at the damned router trying to figure out what was going wrong.

I thought I'd cracked it. We'll just hook up the laptop to the router via wire, the way we did in Madrid! We all remember Madrid.

The problem was this. To get to where the other end of the router was located I had to wade through a room full of all the oddments of 45 years that had accrued in my landlady's study/lounge/spare room.

In fact, the house itself is full of such oddments.

The point is this; the house is a little cluttered because of the aversion to tidying.

Well, I say a little...

So there I am, trying to attach the wire to get what should have been wireless internet. I'm cursing the lack of light; the bulb is blown and I'm relying on the light filtering in from the next room. I look up and realise I am being watched.

I am being watched by hundreds of pairs of glassy, lifeless eyes from the stuffed animals that range the room. And these are not your typical Build-a-Bear animals with lolling smiles and hearts for noses. These are the animals that come up from time to time on Antiques Roadshow. The animals with black, black eyes and oddly stitched grimaces. There is a ventriloquist's dummy with the jaw broken at a frankly alarming angle. The silence is overpowering, which is odd as outside the window there should be a main road. Disturbed by ABSOLUTELY NOTHING an old rabbit tumbles down the slope of a duvet stacked against the shelves.

I get the fuck out of there.

Haven't been in since.

Lessee, Sunday me and a friend did a frankly appalling thing and I became the person I hoped never to be. With the ink on prestigious degrees still drying (well, on mine anyway, I'm the newer graduand) and jobs in the City waiting for us we sat in Regent's Park, drank champagne and lunched on Whole Foods purchases.

Mind you, the champagne was on offer and hadn't even been put in the refrigerator, for pesto's sake and we barely had the ice to chill it dahlin'!

Loved every guilty minute.

On Monday I was clawed a by a rabbit. Clawed, I tell you! I grant you it was like being mauled by limp lettuce but still! I only tried to give the bloody thing its dinner and this is the thanks I get...

"Come here rabbit, that's a good rabbit, nice pellets, nom nom nom, let me stroke yo..YOU LITTLE PRICK!"

We have no idea/cant be arsed to remember the thing's name so we have christened it Fucking Nuisance.

And when I turned round from feeding Fucking Nuisance (FN for short) I am faced with what I can only describe as the opening scene from Lost World. You remember, the second Jurassic Park where the wee girl is on the beach and she's stupid enough to feed the little Compsognathus-es (Compys) and they eat her?

I turned around and there was a cat trying to eat me.

I like and respect cats. I love dogs because I understand dogs. I speak their language.

Growl = no me gusta, back off.
Head dipped, tail up = I want to play
Circle = I want food
Belly up = I am submissive, also, rub my tummy
Whine = I am upset
Loud bark, tail stiff = I think I'm the Sherriff of the world, get the f**k out of Dodge before I eat you.
Loud bark, tail wagging = God you look interesting, come be interesting over here.

I thinks cats mainly just want food. Cats are equals, fiercely independent and tough little sumbitches.

It was waving it's spread claws at me and meowing; it stretched up and down making little clawing motions at me.

"God, I don't know what you want! Take my money!! Also, don't eat the rabbit..."

It was showing a large amount of interest in poor old FN who was swiping again. You ain't got the stuff to face this kitty FN, put that limp wrist away.

Long story short (I almost never use this phrase) the bloody thing is still prowling around outside.

In other news, I am a recent and fervent convert to the London bus. I had been a lover of the Tube. I loved the wee map and the trains and the sense of "I'm very busy and important, look at me not making eye contact because I charge clients for that shit."

But the bus; oh it costs £1.50 a go to go anywhere and you get to see the beautiful city. You feel like you're on your own little tour of London as sights like The Shard and the Gherkin, St Pauls and The London Eye come in and out of view suddenly and excitedly like a magician's silk scarves. You get to speed through areas you've only read about; Whitechapel and Stepney and Westminster and Highbury and Islington.

I took the route to work yesterday just to get used to it. I did it on the way to help a dear friend move into her own London accommodation. Accommodation that I had scoped and signed for her after her own stressy searchings through Spareroom. I were in London. I were free. I am experienced in such matters. I was only too pleased to help.

I tell you I could have been a solicitor if I wanted. I drew up the contract and when I say I drew up the contract I put bare terms down exactly on two black sheets of A4 paper and got both parties to sign. This will be the only time I give a little bit of advice from my own legal education. Do NOT fret about short term leases. The facts are these. You've already made a contract from the moment you both agree to lease, from the deposit is paid and keys are handed over. This is the essence of contract, Written proof is essential but think of it as merely evidence to prove the contract (v v v simplified, my teachers would be appalled). You don't need to download form H39N3 or summat from a verified website and sign in triplicate. Juts have something, anything written down.

Speaking of lodgings, I love where I live but it can get lonely of an evening. I have good friends here, friends who I can go get beigels with (yes, that's how you spell the proper stuff and they're delicious and cheap and in the same shop on Brick Lane you get a jam doughnut for 30p) and who bring me banana bread made by a girl who could sell that stuff for thousands and I'd buy it. But in the evenings it's just me and George Alagiah on BBC News at 6pm. Last night we had chicken, pesto and pepper pizza with a Pinot Noir and spoke of harnessing the same reactions at the heart of the sun via copycat experiment in the South of France."

"...with his report on fusion there. And speaking of the power of the sun, what's the weather like?"

"Ahaha, oh George. Marry me."

Jon Snow and Channel Four are just an hour too late to take me out to dinner.

On a related note, the great and all knowing Mother has already asked if I've managed to meet any nice boys in London, sure you have to put yourself out there, don't hide away in your room, always have a bit of make up on to look your best..."

"You know Ma, in some cultures it is the responsibility of the parents to arrange compatible and lasting partners for their offspring."

"Pure laziness."

She just wants grandbabies to dote on. Not now mind. Not for a good decade. But still, someday...

And so on that note we depart, but I'll in all likelihood be on the wireless sooner than we think because someone's got a birthday this weekend!!

Just to clarify, that someone is indeed me.

I got some nice celebratory stuff arranged and might just go and see about a dress I've been eyeing up at Chapel Market. It won't fit me. They never do. The word "fit" in itself should point to how dresses and the like are calculated. You're supposed to look fit in them.

Shoes on the other hand. I'm a size five/four and a half. Shoes never let me down.

So a dress or shoes. I have £20 to spend given that I haven't even earned my first pay yet. But under the intermittently cloudy/blue sky of London on a gentle Thursday anything is possible.

Anything at all.

xo

Clever girl...

I have no explanation for the title of this latest shortish blog post. None whatsoever apart from the tenuous link that I feel like a very clever girl. I did it. I got me a job in London and moved here.

I've got my chai latte from the great caffeinated power that won't pay its taxes. You know them, I used to write from them all the time in Alonso Martinez in Madrid. Remember? The friendliest Starbucks in the world? Drat...

There's always a very small part of me that is tugging my sleeve and saying "No! No! Don't mention people or places, you remember all that libel law and that one documentary on Channel Four!" but sod it, I can patronise in both senses at the same time!

Why am I writing from Starbucks I hear you ask? Certainly not because TalkTalk (named and shamed) has a list of network problems longer than the walk home last night when I realised I had never walked to my now home on my own after dark and was convinced thieves and murderers roamed the night freely and without hindrance. I went past an all night Sainsbury's and three quite nice pubs with flowers and scrubbed wood tables outside. It was hardly the projects Aileen....

Sorry I digress. Once again I am plagued by internet woes BUT I have a massive TV. Trade off.

So here I am living in London. Met my elusive co-lodger yesterday. And we have our villain of the piece. Well, she's no Captain Hook, but we shall endure!

I had just unpacked all my things into a lovely room at the top of the house. Light, airy and has been cleaned and neatened by the landlady who even left out bedclothes and towels. Bless Angela.

It is however a good and wonderful thing that landlady is away for the month of August as that leaves far more scope for nocturnal comings and goings. Not that I mean really loud sex, although I wouldn't object. Indeed would be hurt and offended if the idea of me in the next room put anyone off loud and passionate relations. I have been known to stick on some Barry White to facilitate the process...

A couple on Aer Lingus yesterday had NO difficulty with me being in the adjacent seat.

Yeah.

You read that right.

So we're on the plane and I'm reading my Kindle and the couple beside me (Irish boy, Scandinavian girl) are being all lovey dovey. I ALWAYS have to sit next to couples and they're always too cute. Until now.

It is out of the corner of my eye that I first become aware of things getting out of hand (pun). At first I was sure girlfriend was lending a hand (pun) to pull boyfriend's coat into a more comfortable position (pun) This was not the case. The case was that with very little cover and NO compunctions at all this couple was merrily attempting to join the Mile High club. BUT EVERYONE COULD SEE!! I ended up hunching over my Kindle to try and safeguard said couple from the three members of the blue rinse brigade in the next aisle who would have kicked off if this indiscretion was noticed.

And all the while I was thinking, "Not on Aer Lingus. Oh God, not here. Ryanair yes but you'd be charged pay as you come and go. Easyjet possibly. But all these planes are named after Catholic saints for God's sake. We're flying on St Ronan."

St Ronan. Bishop. Feast day, November 19th. Venerated at Coventry because his ARM is enshrined there. You can't make up this shit...

Lessee, I have very little else to tell y'all. Travel was very tiring but when is it not? Am super pleased with where I'm situated. Am super excited about starting work. Am super excited about living in London! Am super excited to stop talking like a twelve year old girl from Beverly Hills!

Next week then! I swear to have more wonderful stories from a week exploring London. Exciting adventures and such. But now? Now I'm off to Regent Street to have lunch. We getting cosmopolitan up in h'yah!

And still the crumpled bit of paper lies forlornly at the bottom of my bag.

Don't worry.

I haven't forgotten The List.

xo