London Lost?

I've been having some distinctly un-London like experiences recently. I was contemplating them today, as I walked to the bus stop, wearing far, far too many clothes. Such a thing has never happened to me before on the 26th of October, but today, my jeans, ballet pumps, lightweight cardigan, and leather jacket combined to make me inappropriately dressed. It was sweltering.

In fact, so far autumn has been what I can only describe as awesome. Is this global warming? Do I need to be scared, and start taking shorter showers? A few cold snaps here and there - but nothing compared to what I've become accustomed to. The whole weekend was pretty glorious too - a little rainy on Saturday, yes, but more than made up for by Sunday. And Saturday was such fun the rain really went unnoticed.

I went into town. Again. That makes - um - quite a few times in the last couple of months (I don't keep count! What am I, a complete loser?) Escaped the SW6 yet again and made my way through Chelsea, Knightsbridge, Piccadilly, and down to Haymarket, for a lovely visit to New Zealand House.

And it really is New Zealand House. They're very authentic. We were there to pick up rugby tickets, and the first thing we saw upon entering was a handwritten sign (black Vivid on A4 - and you know it was a Vivid, none of this Sharpie rubbish) saying 'RUGBY TICKETS' with an arrow pointing to a table that was set up, literally two feet away. It was a beautiful thing. So Kiwi. Helpful, even though it was rather unnecessary, cobbled together quickly to fulfill a need, more a thing of utility than beauty. It was Taihape on a sign. It may as well have been made of No.8 wire and duct tape. Phenomenal.

We were expecting to run into problems at this juncture, as we waited in the NZ sized line (there were two people in front of us). H1 had not fully read the instructions on his email, because he doesn't really 'do' the bottom of emails, and so we didn't have photocopies of every passport, as required, nor did we have a printout of the email. We weren't overly worried - where there's a will there's a way. So we approached the lovely lady sitting behind the desk (it was like an old-fashioned wooden desk that people of my era had in primary school, when you graduated to J3, up from the communal tables, not like an impressive business-y desk or anything, as would usually grace an...embassy? ...Consulate? ...Tourist information spot? Hmmm, I have no idea what New Zealand House actually is, it seems.

We explained our predicament, starting with the passports. 'No worries' she said, with a look of slight surprise on her face. We continued to explain the lack of confirmation email. That too, was a 'no worries' situation. This time she looked surprised and...disdainful? From anyone else I would think disdain, but not from a Kiwi. Certainly not from this one, who gently asked for the booking name and found our tickets, all the while looking at us in a - aha - pitying way. She saw through us. She knew we'd been here too long, and she got why we thought it was going to be hard. I swear she nearly dropped a 'bro' onto the end of her second 'no worries', but lost her nerve, scared this would be the final straw to make us straighten up, stiffen our upper lips, and march out of there to have a nice strong cup of tea.

Then she offered us a Mintie. One for the road, just like that. We accepted gracefully, and laughed as we wandered out, chewing our Minties, our teeth loosening dangerously in our gums. We laughed at our naivety, our mild distrust of bureaucracy, our ever-so-slightly tense shoulders. Then we got back on the bike and drove towards the safety of Fulham at speed.

Three and a half years is a long time, but not too long. New Zealand is an incredible place, and when we're ready, it will be exciting to head back there - and we are lucky lucky lucky that we have that option, and lucky lucky lucky to have the option of being here, while it suits, while it still makes sense*. A visit to New Zealand House will be my new way of dealing with any stray homesickness that may crop up - I will just offer to make signs for them, or something. Mini-Taihapes** perhaps, small town wonders created from popsicle sticks and duct tape and No.8 wire (this is how the actual Taihape was built, right?)***

*I'm thinking that might be until the sun stops shining - then listen to how fast I change my tune.

**Sorry for all the Taihape jokes - I spent a night trying to sleep in a van there once when I was 11. The Desert Road was closed due to snow, and despite us pulling in at the reasonable hour of 9m or so, all the motels were closed - it was unavoidable, and has scarred me for life.

***General apology to all who are not Kiwis, both for the Kiwi-oriented humour, and because you are not a Kiwi. Sorry.

Oh the glamour!

To begin: I read one of the funniest things I've ever read today. Stuff White People Like. It's a blog, it's hilarious, I wish so much I wrote it. Google it, laugh, then come back to me (don't abandon me for the funny guys!) The guy who writes it has now released a book of the same name - I am going to buy it and put it with the other stack of books I have by my bed, ready to read, when I finally get the time. I'm very much looking forward to doing this.

And in other news, London news? Well, local elections seem to be on. I have a threatening letter from Hammersmith and Fulham Council asking me to register. I distinctly remember registering and voting some time ago. Why isn't that good enough? Why register again? On my way home tonight the streets were full of people who seemed to have some great purpose (they were walking in a certain way, I can't really describe it - purposeful, I guess?) and there was a sign up on the gates of the local primary school that announced the way to the polling station. I think I have missed my chance to vote. Feeling a little guilty, after the suffragettes went to so much trouble to secure me that vote and all, but not too overly concerned - will vote when the people I'm voting for wield some power and might make some difference. 

I am currently more concerned with the price hikes in tube and bus fares for 2010. Big price hikes, particularly on buses. That's going to affect a lot of people (not me really, but for once I'm thinking about people other than me). And on the one hand, I get it - TfL has no money, they need money, ergo, fares have to rise - but on the other it's just another blow for so many, isn't it? And Boris Johnson blaming others for it right, left and centre - whether it's true or not, it makes him look petty and unable to cope. I distinctly remember his pre-election promise of a flat bus fare, no matter how many buses you catch, to cover you for an hour - a good idea, great even, as London buses often just don't get you where you need to go in one ride. Not a lot has been said about that post-election. I'm prepared to bet nothing has been said, in fact. That promise is hanging out at the North Pole with Santa and Elvis, drinking no-hangover wine and planting money trees. This is what happens when an entire city votes for its leader based on his funny hair, and the fact you can call him BoJo. Oh, and yes, I did vote that time.

Enough ranting. Enough politics. Back to me, and London, and how this is going to affect London. Will it stop people catching the bus and tube so often? Will more people cycle to work? Will fewer people go out at night? We won't know until later in 2010, as only a complete idiot ventures out in January or February (yes, come January and February, you can look forward to many posts detailing the wild varied exploits of Condiments on a City Life - a city life that takes place entirely in a flat made of cardboard and some MDF and measures approximately 6 x 6 metres, total. Trading Standards will probably have me up in front of them for the misleading name). 

It would be a real shame if fewer people went out, long term that is, not just in January and February. London at night is brilliant. Ghastly and horrible, yes, but really in just the most fantastic way. I was out last Wednesday at some industry awards - I know this sounds a bit show-offy, but just wait - the Housewares Awards, to be specific. Don't laugh too hard.

It was actually a really fabulous evening. I got to dress up, I got Champagne, I got to hang out with lovely people, eat delicious food, and watch as my hosts won their category. The only unfortunate bits were getting there and getting back. It was raining, so the tube shut down, because this is what happens when it rains in London. I got as far as High Ken, then had to try to catch a bus to my final destination, waiting in the rain, fearful of being late and having to walk in when everyone was already sitting down for dinner, and everyone looking at me and my frizzy hair and rain soaked dress. I would have caught a black cab, but every one that came my way had its light firmly off, and smug, dry people in the back.

The right bus did eventually show, I got on and made it with ten minutes to spare, had a lovely time, then braved it all again to get home. It had stopped raining by this time, and the tube was running again, so I made it to Notting Hill no problems, before waiting the interminable length of time I always wait at Notting Hill. What is the station before Notting Hill when heading south on the District line? Is it Bayswater? What sort of a black hole is Bayswater, that it just kind of sucks all the Wimbledon-bound trains in, holding them for hours at a time before letting them go? What happens in Bayswater? I may have to go visit one day - do a bit of investigating and see whether I can see the reasons for this complete dearth of Wimbledon trains making it to Notting Hill in a reasonable time. 

So, you may have gathered I spent some time waiting at Notting Hill. I got in some good people watching during this time (due to show-offy event I was carrying a tiny, impractical clutch instead of my usual inelegant, giant tote that will one day be directly responsible for a painful back condition) so had nothing to read (being a true Londoner now, I like to shut myself off from the masses and ignore, ignore, ignore!)

Well, I'm glad I didn't, this time. People in London at night are funny.

I saw the ones you always see. Look for them next time you're out post 11:30pm. They're awesome. My favourites, in order of preference, are:

1. Drunk girl - she walks past you, on her phone. You admire her extremely cool jacket, as it sways past you, then you think 'hang on. Why is her jacket at such an odd, precarious angle?' Then you realise it's not her jacket, it's her! If you're lucky, she'll turn around at this point, treating you to a view of her smudged mascara, caused by her tear-stained eyes. Tear-stained because - could it be? - YES. She is having an argument with her boyfriend on her mobile. You've struck gold. Relax and enjoy.

2. Theatre-goers. Often tourists, sometimes not, wearing the Dirty Dancing t-shirt over their original clothes, carrying a giant plastic bag emblazoned with the Dirty Dancing logo, full of Dirty Dancing plastic, um, stuff (I'm not sure what - what do people buy as souvenirs from musicals? This confuses me.) They are, invariably, singing the songs from Dirty Dancing (this is true even when they've clearly been to another musical, like Grease). Good god they're annoying! But all part of the greater picture, and they are annoying in a really very enjoyable way.

3. The creepy older guy. By himself, looking and being creepy. He's generally dressed in a really nondescript way, but in such a way that you can't figure out why he's out. He's not coming home late from work, he can't have been out for dinner in those clothes, he's not coming home from the pub because then he would be walking, not coming from central. He's just there, being...creepy. Avoid, but do let me know if you figure out his purpose.

4. The confused older couple. A little boring this one, but oh, so sweet. Their names are things like Mary and David, and they're always so confused, trying to work out why that girl's jacket is on crooked and why the girl in the dress is carrying such a stupidly small bag and smirking. They went out to dinner with friends (Edith and John), and they didn't mean to stay out so late, but were having such a nice time that it just happened. And now they won't be home before 11 after all, and why is the train taking so long, anyway?

Lovely. A nice one to end on, that. And end I must, because I have written far too much, and rather expect that nobody will still be bothering to read my ravings. Which shall continue...until next time...

Meet Dave

Dave* is our next door neighbour.

Dave lives on the same level as us, in a new build apartment. When we moved in here, Dave's apartment didn't exist. It was just a bunch of scaffolding.

We hear Dave frequently. Like our apartment, his appears to be made of cardboard, with maybe a bit of MDF thrown in for safety reasons. As we've proven in our place, cardboard and MDF can be made to look very stylish, but it's not so great when it comes to the more boring, yet admittedly useful things in life - heating, strength, structure, things like that. Oh, and soundproofing. It's rubbish for soundproofing.

I guess that if we hear Dave, he hears us. Although maybe not. Probably only on the weekends actually, when we're up, vacuuming maybe, and he's trying to sleep off his hangover with Terri-or-Sheri-from-last-night. Who he pulled in Fiesta Havana. And will have immense trouble getting rid of later on.

I don't actually know that much about Dave. Or anything, in fact. H1 and I feel like we know him intimately though. We got to know him on Tuesday night, from the hour of 11:30pm onwards, when we were trying to sleep. Dave had a mate around (maybe. Could be that he has a flatmate). They played X-Box. Something with guns. Then they switched that off and turned on the stereo. Ibiza Party Beats Volumes 1, 2, and 3, to get them in the right mood. At this stage they probably heated up a pizza and drank a few more beers. Then they put on their best shirts, slicked back their hair until it could slick no more, decided where to go (Havana, of course, if you're going out in Fulham and you want to pull, but you're not so fussed on who, you're going to Havana), switched off the music, and headed out - to our great, great relief.

Dave has a black leather couch and a very flash sound system. His TV is huge but he's thinking about getting a bigger one. He works for Foxtons and is very proud of the fact. He especially loves his Mini that he gets to drive. Dave is highly satisfied with his life.

Good for him. I'm very satisfied with my life too. And although I wish I didn't hear so much of his life, he probably wishes he didn't hear so much of mine. Such is life in London flats, particularly those made predominantly of cardboard. Dave is probably a very pleasant lad, and should I ever meet him, I shall be sure to let you know.

*Names may have been changed to protect identities, or may have not. H1 and I settled on Dave as we lay awake for an hour and a half on Tuesday night, listening to him and discussing him. Dave seemed to fit, as did everything else. We could be completely wrong, and it could be Sam, who works for Friends of the Earth and has a wormery - but I don't think so. It's Dave. Meet Dave.