End of an Era

It's all over. I have some disastrous news that will rock your world the way it did mine (well, probably not actually, unless you have as little going on in your life as I do right now, and I think that's unlikely).

Another bout of illness has struck me down (that's not the bad news), so I've been noticing a lot more around the house of late, and reflecting on my life rather a lot. First things first, London is a harsh place, and you need to be tough to live here. Don't get me wrong - I still love London and strangely, it will always now be one of my homes, but what I've realised is that even though there are parts that are such fun, often the bits I truly enjoy could be neatly lifted into pretty much any location on Earth, and I would still enjoy them just as much, because they're more about the people than anything else. I'm lucky enough to know some amazing people here, and to count them amongst my true friends - a rather incredible feat considering that three and a half years ago I knew nobody in London at all. And there are rather a lot of dreadful people in this fair city. Although, to be fair, probably no more than in any other city anywhere else in the world. There are just a lot of people here, living in a place that was never meant to hold this many people, so the dreadful ones are more obvious.

As a fitting example, take a Saturday night a couple of weeks ago, when I headed down to Aragon House to watch the rugby with a few girlfriends. We failed in an epic manner on the rugby watching, not even pretending to make noises about bothering to move from our table to make our way into the room where the TV was. Instead, we sat round a table and gossiped. And even though the bar held some annoying people, and was actually a highly irritating bar in itself, I had an absolutely fantastic time. Thanks to my friends.

This was my first trip to Aragon House, and I had been warned that it was not a fun environment - but by someone whose opinion I wouldn't normally bother with, so it was with an open mind I went along. And sure, the bar was full of Sloanes, but hey, they're only people. People with funny hair, sure, but still just people. It was just like any other bar, in terms of clientele - some annoying, some not. I have no doubt I've annoyed many others on multiple occasions.

No, the really dreadful thing about this particular establishment is something that should actually be obvious from the name, but I never connect names to themes. Aragon. As in, Catherine of. The whole place is a mess of pointy pseudo medieval doors, uneven flooring, and inappropriate word choices (Ye Olde Chicken Burger does not exist. I cannot have been the first person in the world to have noticed that). I was also disturbed by a visit to the bathroom that led me down some dark, uneven stairs and pitched me up in front of a couple of pointy pseudo medieval doors, one reading Catherines, the other Henrys. Eugh. There's no need for that. In Aragon's favour, at least this was obvious - not a witty* coy picture (peacocks and hens, anyone?) or terrifyingly confusing (one particular trip to an Auckland institution comes to mind, where I spent a good few minutes hovering in the hall, second-guessing my judgement, completely unable to decide between the door labelled Joy and the door labelled Bong. I was so relieved when my instincts proved right).

So, the point of all this. Annoying people everywhere. Annoying places everywhere. But also, and most importantly, amazing people to balance all this out. I'm lucky enough to have them scattered all over - England, New Zealand, America, Australia, France, and on, and on - and wherever I am and whatever's going on, I know I can rely on them, in a way you just can't rely on annoying people.

Annoying people like...Dave. Dave who has really let me down. After the constant noise emanating from Dave's fake-leather-couched, mirrored-ceilinged, slick-with-hair-gel apartment, you really wouldn't think he could let me down any further (or in fact, that I had ever built up any expectations regarding Dave at all) but he has.

You may want to sit down.

Dave doesn't exist.

H1 (who, since I got sick, has displayed a stupendous show of support and solidarity by spending almost as much time in our flat as me) ran some late night investigations at a time when the rest of London was sound asleep, but we were awake, thanks to the mellifluous strains of Dave's bass. Except it wasn't Dave's bass. Because there is no Dave, and it wasn't next door, it was the flat below us. The noise and vibrations from that flat are so loud, it reverberates up through our walls, making it sound like it's coming from the apartments next door (ah, the house built of cardboard strikes again).

Of course, I didn't believe him when he told me, but further investigations from both of us have shown it to be the nasty, upsetting truth. Since that moment, both H1 and I have spent our days and nights wandering in the kind of semi-dazed state of confusion you would expect from two people who have had their entire world rocked. The way I would expect you to wander for the rest of the day - except no need really, because I'm sure nobody thought about Dave the way we did. Sad. But over it! RIP Dave.

*Oh I did an asterisk. I'm sure I don't even need to put it in - surely you've worked out that it is, in fact, not witty?

Spring is here?

Well, it snowed yesterday, so I'm going to go with 'no'. I just wish someone would tell the shops. And the fashion magazines. I'm not in the market for shopping right now (I am having trouble closing my wardrobe as it is). But it still irritates me, for no reason, that at every turn I'm being ambushed with florals, pastels, and, admittedly lovely, little dresses in light-weave cotton. Oh, and acid-wash ripped jeans and neon t-shirts (the 80s revival is still alive and thriving in London, like a bad smell that won't go away (also alive and thriving in London)). Although those pieces exert a lot less pull on me than the aforementioned dresses.

Because that's the really really annoying part in all of this - I actually want to buy all these things, despite their complete and utter seasonal inappropriateness. I have a tendency to go a wee bit crazy around this time of year, no doubt brought on by the constant low-level worry that this will be the year winter doesn't actually end, and absolutely fed up with winter clothes, shell out hundreds of pounds on beautiful clothes that won't actually be able to be worn for many months yet. But then I make the really fatal mistake of going ahead and wearing them anyway, trying to layer them up for extra warmth and failing, so I spend the last couple of months of winter and the first couple of months of spring in a continuous state of cold, my blue-tinged, goose-pimpled skin setting off my lovely new clothes in a really unlovely way. That wasn't a mistake, either - it really will stay close to freezing here for a good few months yet, right into spring. In any other reasonable country, spring is the symbol that summer is on its way, but here, it serves as more of a reminder that technically there should be four seasons, and we will acknowledge them whether they exist or not.

This year I'm trying to stay strong and dress as the weather dictates, rather than as the shops and magazines would have it, but I don't like my chances. I should just stop looking in shop windows altogether. Excepting GAP, which has it right and, last time I looked, was displaying a whole heap of soft, fleecy sweatshirts. They caught me on a particularly cold day and I have never been so tempted to jump right in, rolling round in the comfort and cuddliness of those highly unfashionable but oh-so-warm sweatshirts. That is the way I am determined to be right up until the Boat Race, horrendously unfashionable but warm.

London Fashion Week begins on 19 February. Luckily I'm not going, as that would promptly put paid to all my warm-but-worryingly-unstylish plans. Although the designers are showing their autumn/winter collections (of course - just because we are still stuck in the grim grip of this winter is no reason not to start considering the next) and so possibly I would fit right in with the models (um, clothes-wise, that is - sadly not in any other way, shape, or form at all).

In other events, it was Waitangi Day on 6 February. We went with a group of friends, both Kiwi and honorary Kiwi, for lunch at the Kiwi Kitchen, only to find it closed, with a note indicating the owners were away for January. Clearly the fact it was actually February didn't make any difference, and it certainly didn't make the restaurant open. We forgot Waitangi Day and headed off for brunch instead - celebrating (hmmm, celebrating? Acknowledging? What do you do on Waitangi Day??) it when wrapped in countless layers of cardigans, scarves, and coats just seemed wrong anyway. Although the boys chose to have beer with their brunch, neatly adding an authentically Kiwi flavour to the proceedings regardless. Thank you boys!

The Yummy Mummy is Alive and Well

So after last week's horrendous, Dave-filled day, I've found the idea of going anywhere, doing anything, and even staying in my own house, to be a wee bit traumatic. That said, I have done all of those things, because one really doesn't have a choice. Particularly the latter, considering it's winter and it's what I do best.

I've actually been all over the show, hanging out in such exotic destinations as Putney (yes, again), Hampstead (pretty) and the Starbucks on Fulham Road (I know, capitalist pig, but it's warm, I like their chai lattes, and I genuinely do think better there). Almost the first thought out of this deep thinking pool was that Starbucks is far superior to Caffe Nero, even though I have a loyalty card for Caffe Nero and Starbucks gives you squat. To begin with, I didn't spill my drink on anyone, not even myself, I got a good amount of writing done, took an exciting phone call, and got to watch the good women of Fulham, who may as well have been put on this earth solely for my enjoyment, such is the level of glee I gleaned from this particular people watching experience.

It was mid-afternoon, and as I sat, Starbucks began to fill up with the pampered and their progeny, having an after-school treat before heading home to the hardships of homework and hot baths. If you pay the papers any mind, you would think the yummy mummy is a dying breed in this post-recession world, all stressed and shrivelled from having to deal with husbands losing jobs, bonuses, and mistresses left right and centre. This is clearly not the case in Fulham, which seems to have escaped the worst of the recession rather neatly - house prices started going back up before anywhere else in London, the private schools remained well stocked, and at no point were the streets packed with lost businessmen vaguely rambling. And the yummy mummy lives on here. In Starbucks, apparently.

There were two women, complete with children, who were a lot of fun to watch. The one had a pre-schooler, who got her very own babyccino and cupcake. I was frankly astounded - Starbucks cupcakes are so big I struggle with them, but here was a three year old with one all her own. All right, I was astounded and jealous. Especially when I saw this kid actually tackle the cupcake. With no prevaricating it was straight up to her mouth, full speed, icing first, right in her mouth. Unfortunately, it was about three times as wide, so it was also all over her teeth, cheeks, and oddly enough, a bit in her hair. Her mum saw me looking and looked a bit flustered and embarrassed, but I was just really impressed, frankly. Wouldn't you love for it to be acceptable to just chow down delicious food with all the gusto of a three year old? I tried to convey this thought to Yummy Mummy No.1 (hereafter YM1) with nods, smiles, and other complicated facial expressions, but am afraid I failed somewhat.

Yummy Mummy No.2 (YM2) came in a little later with a sweet blonde boy, probably around the age of six or seven, and sat down with him for a coffee (for her), a juice (for him), and a giant piece of cake (also for him - do these mothers not have to deal with the after effects of all this sugar?) She was beautiful in an expensive way, and not the slightest bit harassed looking, despite having a baby in a pushchair, a Bella off at ballet, and the little blonde boy*. Incidentally, YM2 clearly had aspirational ideas for her children, calling after her son in a perfectly pitched accent when he made for the sugar packets (guess the cake wasn't enough). 'Clinton!' her voice rang out, as I silently snickered. I understand the logic of naming your kid after someone high up, such as the 42nd President of the United States of America, but why go for the dishonest, womanising, ever so sleazy one? Although, it's better than calling your kid Bush - I will give her that.

There were many other mothers in Starbucks that afternoon, almost all of the 'yummy' persuasion, but YMs 1 and 2 were those I limited my observations to, mainly because they were the closest to me. As I sat there, surveying the small cafe packed with children and their mothers, one persistent, rare, fiance-terrifying thought churned in my mind: I want a kid. This thought is not one that I have very often at all, because I live in London, and lets face it, most kids in London are unbridled terrors (I have been known to quite frequently ask those friends who are from London how they grew up into such nice, normal adults, as I have yet to see an unknown child here who makes me feel okay about the future of the human race). These kids, however, were uber-sweet. Although that could have well been the huge proliferations of sugar being thrown at them from every angle.

I eventually, reluctantly, left Starbucks for my own home, cultivating this bizarre thought, before sharing it with H1 later that night. Who promptly gave me the confused, stricken look of a man about to sit in a corner and cry from sheer self-pity, and started mumbling incoherent babbling sentences made up of words like 'children no mean little horror you don't want that not here not now no no nooooooooo', while rocking back and forth. This helped to a degree, then the next morning I went for a run and got swiped by a little girl brandishing a stick** and I was well and truly over it. No babies here, not for a veeeeeery loooooong time. I shall stick to Starbucks.

*A little eavesdropping went on - don't judge me, it was very interesting.

**Thank f*** it wasn't a knife - she was about eight, so prime knife-carrying age.