Rocking London

What a week!

I was really looking forward to a chillaxed, laid back autumn, and so far I have not got it. It's all good though - London is being pretty awesome to me right now. 

Where did all the bad stuff go? Is it just that I'm really happy, and it's not visible through my rose-tinted glasses? 

The sun has been shining, it's hardly been cold, and everything seems merry. Not just in my little corner of London, either. I did venture into town this weekend - I was even brave enough to venture onto Oxford Street. Only the stretch between Regent Street and Bond Street of course. Turning the 'other way' out of Regent Street pretty much equates to peering down into the fires of hell, with the threat of falling always imminent. I try not to turn the 'other way', ever.

So I went into town for coffee with an old friend, which was a lot of fun, and to do a spot of shopping, which was also fun, even though I had to do it in a very head down, don't look up, don't stop way. I roared through Topshop on a mission, pausing only to assault a young sales assistant with my hastily barked directive of 'Hi. Can you please point me in the direction of the plain singlets?' before grabbing two of the aforementioned tops, dashing through the till area (although I did pay) and making my way up to street level again. Experiences in Uniqlo and H&M were much the same. In Jones I  relaxed a bit and tried on the shoes before buying, even walking round the shop a bit to test their comfort (I think this means I'm getting old. Was a time that comfort meant nothing to me, and looks were enough. You'll be glad to know, they fit like a dream).

The reason for this utilitarian approach is because I have a plan. A wardrobe clearout a few weeks ago felt really really good, but may have been completed with too much enthusiasm, and now I really don't have many clothes. Good for the soul, but not for the body that needs coverage in this fast becoming wintrier climate. So in order to replenish, I had to sit down and work out what I actually needed, as otherwise there's a good chance I would wind up with six nearly identical, pretty, silky dresses, countless pairs of tights, a handful of scarves, and no knitwear at all.

Problem is, it's just been London Fashion Week, and it's getting to me. Not because I've been frequenting the front rows, although I really wish I could pretend I have been (does reading the coverage in the Times every day count?) but because it seems to have pervaded the whole capital with an air of absolute shopping recklessness. And in response, or maybe it started this whole thing, who knows, almost everything on the high street is awesome.

It was like a dreamy alternate reality out there on Sunday, wandering up Regent Street in the warm sun, staring in the shop windows and occasionally venturing in, falling madly and dangerously in love with countless items, including, of course, many impractical, floaty dresses that I have no opportunity to wear anywhere. The street was strangely quiet for a Sunday, and now that summer is over, rather devoid of tourists. If you've ever wondered if tourists add any value to a street, I can assure you they don't. 

I only knew it wasn't a dream because those annoying people with bubbles were still outside Hamleys. Do they get paid to do that job? I dodged them, but seriously - that bubble stuff stains.

Lucky for me that they were there really, otherwise there's a strong possibility I would have spent everything I have, thinking it was merely dream money and didn't count, much like money spent when you have PMS, or feel a bit fat. But I kept in control - I remembered that it was actual real money I was spending, and if it meant the shop assistants thought I was a bit crazy, or mean, it was worth it. I did come away with clothes I both really needed and that I do like, which kind of seems like the Holy Grail of fashion, but surely can't be. In the entire week's coverage of London Fashion Week, not once did the Times describe a collection as something both needed and liked. 

Anyway, I'm happy, and that is what counts. I'm going to keep a strong grasp on this happiness. It's working for me, and it's working for London. Hey, it's working for my bank account! All is well.

Condiments on a Village Life?

Don't worry, I'm not ditching London for a small rural backwater any time soon, not to the best of my knowledge anyway. H1 hasn't mentioned it being on his radar, so I guess that's a pretty good indication...

...I am, however, potentially doing something a little exciting, a little out of the ordinary for me this weekend. Big news, although probably not as big as I'm hyping it. There is a chance that this Sunday, I will be venturing further than SW6. In fact, I will be leaving the 'SW' postcodes altogether, and heading out into the wild world of 'W' or maybe even 'WC'. 

I've made reference a couple of times before to how I really just live my life wholly and completely in south-west London, and although I'm kidding and making fun of myself, it's actually kind of true. From my home I can walk to work, the supermarket, many lovely pubs and restaurants, Gap, five Starbucks (no joke, that's globalisation for you) and four shoe shops. Why would I need to ever go to any other part of London?

This is, of course, a rhetorical question, for everyone choking and gasping to get the words out - the South Bank! Borough Market! The City! Greenwich! Regent's Park! And I have been to all those places, and love them all for different reasons (except the City, I really only ever went there for work once upon a time). London is full of many fantastic, amazing places. But it's big, and I'm busy. 

Oooh, now that I've typed that it looks really weak.

The theory that London is just a series of small villages interlinked by roads and the tube isn't a new one, but it's pretty accurate. Every little subset of London has everything you can need in it, with its own distinct personality and tribe and vibe. And it's very easy to get very comfortable in your own corner, and just stay there. I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing, but I suspect both. Good for the communities and the local shops (um, around here that's Starbucks, apparently).

I got thinking about this earlier today when reading this article in The Guardian about Brixton, and its introduction of a local currency. Interesting - could work - seems a little bit of overkill to me. If Brixton-ites are anything like me, they don't need an excuse to spend money locally. So there, you have the good side. 

But the bad part happens if you get stuck in a rut and don't end up taking full advantage of having London right there. As a quick disclaimer, I'm not like this, not stuck in any rut - but I can see how it could happen quite easily.

And so now argh. Bugger. I now have eleven back-to-school resolutions. I had a nice tidy ten, and now it is eleven. Although, in the last week I have both dropped off and picked up my drycleaning, so really it's just replacing a mildly pathetic resolution that I can draw a nice tidy line through.

But seriously, that's a good one! A plan for autumn - experience more London. Check out some areas I haven't explored yet, maybe get a little culture, and do as promised in the title of this, and give you some condiments on a city life, rather than a village life. 

Plenty of time for that when  H1 moves us to Boggyton-under-Water and makes me buy gumboots.

That Back-to-School Feeling

It’s in the air…on everyone’s faces…and on the roads…

Kids went back to school this week and I’m feeling much like I have too, despite having actually returned to work nearly ten days ago. A short week will do that to you (I highly recommend coming back from holiday to a bank holiday. A holiday, followed by a holiday! Genius!)

It’s not an unpleasant feeling.

There are two ways of looking at this time of year. The first is with despair – summer’s over, it’s all downhill from here, we’re undoubtedly in for a long hard winter – and admittedly, that has been the way I’ve regarded September every other year since I moved here. The other way, the Pollyanna way you might say, is with that sense of childhood excitement and wonder, set off with new clothes and books and pens and the knowledge that Christmas is just around the corner (to get this right, you need to hammer down the slightly sick feeling that the thought of Christmas tends to engender in anyone over the age of 20).

This year, I’m doing it the Pollyanna way. I’m in no doubt it helps that this year I actually had a summer, and that I’m well aware I will be spending a month in glorious NZ over Christmas. But it is more than that – it’s also the feeling of being settled again, in the best way, of having plans and goals and time to work on them. New school year goals. Funnily enough, I’ve never thought of setting them in autumn before, and I swear it’s never been mentioned by anyone else to me either. But this year, I’m reading about it everywhere, from the Guardian to the Times to Marie Claire, and everyone seems to be talking about it. It’s this season’s barbeque summer – but not reliant on the weather, so has a considerably better chance of happening.

I set my goals while sunbathing on the beach on Mykonos (I promise that wasn’t written to brag, even though it’s obvious it could really quite easily be taken that way). I had a notepad and a pen and it was the second to last day of my holiday – the timing was perfect. I set some fairly big goals which I very much hope to achieve, although they are dependent on others also, so we’ll see. And then I set some rather small goals so I could make sure some were attained at least – and because I decided I wanted ten and then couldn’t think of ten lofty high goals. So in there are mixed in bullet points that say things like ‘get boots re-heeled’ and ‘clean out wardrobe’, amongst ‘read the entire works of Charles Dickens’ and ‘get really really really fit’*. The little goals have nobody but me required to fulfill them, so there is an outside possibility they will be realised.

 Mmmmm. So they're now set, and I'm not lying on a beach anymore (not physically anyway. My mind's been pleasantly all over the place recently). Only thing to do is get on with it really...autumn is now well and truly here, as if someone flicked a switch, and it's time to put them into action. Mmmmmm. Guess I'm off for a run?** 

*Two of the goals in this sentence are made up and will never happen, so don’t hold me to them.

**Um, that was one of the 'lie' goals. Really, don't hold me to it.

A Love Letter

Yesterday it was three years since I first arrived in London.

I wanted to celebrate, but instead I worked. To be fair, when I arrived in London it was the 1st of September, but only just. My flight got in about 11pm, and by the time I had picked up my bag and cleared customs it was pretty close to the end of the day. I suppose, technically, yesterday it was three years since I sat on a plane for hours and hours after a night 'sleeping' in JFK using my Macpac as a really dreadful pillow/mattress. I was so exhausted by the time I arrived at Heathrow, and terrified after the panicked warnings of an English friend I made in the States ("you're going to catch the tube?!?! You can't catch the tube by yourself at night! Especially not from the airport! That's where all the stabbings take place, night after night! All of them!!!") that I jumped in a black cab to get me to my hostel. That cab ride cost me £65, and if you imagine how my body tenses up and my heart beats fast and angrily at the idea of spending that on a cab now, when I'm gainfully employed full time, you can imagine how I felt about it three years ago, fairly close to penniless after three months in the States. A a point of comparison, my hostel was about £15 a night. I still wonder whether I'm the only backpacker to have ever stayed there who was deposited at their doorstep in a black cab.

That cab ride turned out to be worth it though. To begin with, the cab driver lived up to every expectation I had, fulfilling his obligations by being not only Cockney, but hating everyone. Including immigrants, so I, the new arrival, just shut up and listened with half an ear, my mind mostly considering the buildings and street signs I could see drifting past, stirring feelings of restless excitement in me as I recognised names and places from movies and books. Acton became Chiswick became Hammersmith, and I thrilled in my prior knowledge of these places (clearly, I needed to watch more glamorous movies and read more highbrow books).

I got to my hostel, a party sort of place in Russell Square, and staggered out and in, after having allowed the driver to relieve me of most of my wordly possessions as payment. Ignoring the party I went straight to my room and slept for the first time in several days, a deep, dreamless uninterrupted sleep that took me right through till about 11 the next morning, despite the best efforts of my fellow guests. Then awake, refreshed, relaxed, it was time for London.

I walked the streets the rest of the day, not because I was still scared of the tube, but because it's the only way to see things. I had no idea where I was going or why, but during my meanders I managed to stumble across Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace, Piccadilly Circus, St Pauls, several bridges, and the Globe. I bought lunch from Pret, because, well, I had read about Pret in a book, and ate it in Green Park under the gloriously sunny sky, blissfully unaware that this was likely to be the last sunny day I saw for the next two years. I took my camera but took few photos, wanting to be a Londoner, not a tourist, wanting only to soak up my new home, familiarise myself as quickly as possible and settle in.

I fell in love with London that day. I was tired from travelling, I was exhausted after having been with other people 24/7 for the previous three months. 2 September 2006 was the day I realised how much I like being with myself, how much I like making things that I want happen, how much I suddenly felt capable of. Sitting on the grass in the sun, my mind felt clear and sharp, and my heart, recently damaged although not broken, charged with a new, self-inflicted happiness.

It's so easy to forget how I felt that day. London is a wood you can't see for the trees when you live an everyday life here, an amazing place that hides behind a veneer of dirt and rubbish and stabby children and homeless people. But the important part of that sentence is the beginning; despite everything, it is an amazing place, and I'm so glad I made this happen and made it my home. I'm also glad that flights out of London are cheap and frequent and reliable, that trains out of London exist (although are not cheap or frequent or reliable), and that I have my south-west London haven to hide in when London is just too much London, as only London can be.