Planes, trains, and...taxis

When you are not a native Londoner (and lets face it, there's few of them out there) moving to the capital comes as quite a shock. Particularly when you're coming from New Zealand, and realise everyone's advice is either really hard to follow (it's all well and good suggesting you don't think about how much everything really is in dollars, but the pain of paying nearly $40k in annual rent for a one bedroom flat will never really fade) or it's just wrong (really absurdly cheap flights, after taxes and surcharges are added, no longer exist. You might decide on a Wednesday night that it would be nice to fly to Italy that Friday, but if you do, it will cost you a fortune).

So you start low, and you build up. My first dwelling was a small bedroom in the leafy suburb of Putney, sharing a house with two Australian teachers. Beggars can't be choosers. My first flight was on Ryanair to Milan, flying me to another city a good couple of hours from Milan proper, getting me in to the actual desired destination at the ungodly hour of 1am Friday morning, and taking me back to London so early on Sunday morning that public transport wasn't running. The price of the taxi probably would have covered a flight that operated in daylight hours, run by an airline where you don't find yourself praying that duct tape on the wing is there for decoration.

As H1 and I have settled in, gained better jobs, and learnt the tips and tricks of survival here, we've come to realise most of the economies we made in the beginning were false. Not the rent (yes, that figure is real, but we do love where we live), but definitely the flights. We've also grown considerably less tolerant (a side effect of living in London) and far more snobbish (possibly another side effect of a London life, although more likely of age) and after a stunningly disastrous journey on that same nasty airline a couple of years ago (I can't remember exactly what happened...probably just the usual delays, combined with the complete and utter lack of understanding of basic customer service, but in my melodramatic memory wings fell off and drinks trolleys mowed us down) we made the timeworn declaration that never would we fly with them again. Another Scarlett O'Hara moment, fist in the air and all. And although we made this oath after every trip, this time we stuck with it, and made the move to BA. Who now keep insisting on striking every few minutes, recession be damned, so they now are also airline non grata.

Which brings us to the very real problem that we've concluded we will only be truly happy when we have a private airplane. H1 works like a demon, but still, I can't imagine the private airplane is too close. It would be considerably more than $40k, I think, and that's not an amount I'm comfortable spending casually.

Especially considering we have other places where we are obliged to spend that money, including but not limited to rent (as I've made clear), bills, food, going out, and...taxis. Yes, a few years ago the tube or night bus was good enough for whatever we needed to do, no matter what time of night it was, how far away it might be, how much time it could take, and how many heavy bags we had. Now, however, the London public transport system is going the way of Ryanair to us, and we find ourselves turning to taxis more and more - not every day, but when we're going on holiday (bags on the tube are a pain), when we're out late or in town (doesn't happen too frequently, I'm sure you're aware), or...when we're just really tired and lazy feeling (um, this one does happen a bit more frequently, on my part particularly). I haven't yet tired of taxis, but I'm sure it's just a matter of time until I'm frantically googling what the average salary of a chaffeur is.

And...trains. I feel obliged to talk about them a little bit, having mentioned them in the title, but that was more for a slightly catchy intro than anything else. We really don't catch trains often, not counting the tube. And when we do...well, they're ghastly. Of course. Overpriced and dirty, seems to be the rule. Last time we took a train outside of London, the journey back took us more than three times as long as it was meant to, and we had to spend some time in Staines.

Shudder.

Luckily, there's not often a need to catch a train - necessary only to get to other parts of England, we usually decide to go overseas instead. And take a plane.

Back to square 1. If you know anyone looking to get rid of a private plane - cheap - please give them my number.

The Inner Quiet

Ahhhh. It has all been very peaceful and quiet around London these last few days (relatively speaking, of course). A volcano (that shall remain unnamed, thanks to its frankly ridiculous moniker) has done what it does best and - well, not quite erupted - it's more of a leak really, isn't it? A leak that is causing chaos and mayhem in airports around the world, but that has caused a happy quiet to settle upon this great city.

Of course, there are still cars, trains, trucks, people, horses, sirens, alarms, and the bird with the terrifyingly loud continuous squawk, which seems to live outside our bedroom window, to keep one in a state of permanent teeth-clenching tension, but not having the planes constantly flying overhead is rather nice. Made rather more so because H1 and I have no imminent travel plans. Trust me, this would be quite a different situation if we did.

The importance of finding a quiet space has been uppermost in my mind as of late. Excuse my inner dreadlocked, swaying, 'feel your chakra*' hippy-dippy side coming out - don't judge me, we all have one - but it's so easy to get caught up in the consistent go go go mentality of the city that it becomes normality, until the day you realise that you haven't breathed properly for a few months. Sometimes you just need to find a quiet place and let yourself breathe (yes, I know, I know, but I do genuinely like washing and brushing my hair and I only do yoga for the health benefits, ok?)

The reason I first found myself contemplating this was because I accidentally stumbled upon such a place the other day. A short walk up a steep hill (I know! A hill! So exciting!) and I was in Wimbledon Village - a beautiful place, full of boutiques and a couple of boulangeries, which made me very happy. Although I avoided both the boutiques and the boulangeries (shopping and carbs - my two biggest downfalls. Oh, and cheese) I knew, from the second I crested the hill, leaving the dirt and noise of Wimbledon Station far behind me, and saw Le Pain Quotidien standing there, welcoming me, that this particular quiet place was one of mine, one where I felt comfortable and at peace.

It's important to feel comfortable. A quiet place won't fulfill its duty if you're uncomfortable and wriggling - hence why I can't handle yoga classes with any 'inner chakra' teacher (just let me stretch, please) and anywhere with itchy grass is a bit of a no-no. The comfort factor is one of the rules of the quiet place. Oh yes - there are rules - well, for me, anyway. The quiet place must be comfortable. However, the quiet place must not be Starbucks or my couch, both of which are highly comfortable (but actually, both of which are not quiet - I can clearly hear traffic and screaming children** from either). The quiet place should be so powerful that you can actually feel tension leave your shoulders. The quiet place does not need to be solitary - in fact, you won't find such a thing in London, and I wouldn't enjoy it if you could.

A few days after this, I lay on the grass in Holland Park (Holland Park has top-notch grass, by the way) with good friends and good food, and enjoyed the pleasure a quiet place brings, while actually being rather noisy (we were jubilant at the weather. Jubilation = noise). And then I realised - everywhere I've been, I've discovered my quiet place, the place that helps keep me sane. In Auckland, thanks to several years as a student, it was Albert Park (it worked, despite being the choice of thousands of other students also). When very young, it was the big tree out the front of our house, where I used to read books. At camp in the States, I suppose it was technically all of camp (eugh, isolation) but for me, it was getting away from everyone and running in the mountains, and here in London, there are a few, especially the river that I spend so much time by.

The funny thing is, there's every chance you're reading this muttering, "Go live in the country, you deep-breathing chakra-feeling freak." But the country wouldn't work. The city may make me tense, but it's nothing to the trapped feeling I encounter when in the horrendously quiet country (as per my comment about camp above). I like shops, I like good coffee, I like a buzz, and the country does not offer these things. The faint buzzing noise an electric fence gives off does not count.

No, I am a city dweller, and always will be, but one who needs her quiet space. Thankfully, I have yet to come across a city that doesn't offer it - you just need to look.

*Is a chakra something one can feel?

**I have stopped checking - generally they are not screaming because they're being stabbed by other children, they are screaming because they want cake. I sympathise.

Well, That's Just Dirty Thievery

London steals a lot of things from you. Your sanity, your dignity, your ability to copy with even the most minor inconveniences in a rational, reasonable way. Anyone who has ever tsked or been tsked knows all about that.

Sometimes it goes a little further though, and you suddenly find that things you once had and enjoyed are now no longer with you. Such as H1's discovery, very early in the morning last Tuesday, that his scooter had done a runner - or more likely, that someone or someones of the 'dirty thief' persuasion had done a runner with said scooter.

We were both stunned - so stunned, in fact, that neither of us really believed it had happened until a few days later. As I said, it was very early in the morning, after a long weekend of little sleep, and my first thought was that it was still there, and H1 had merely not looked properly, as if it was a pair of socks, or the coffee. I would feel mean and disloyal about this, were it not for the fact that I confessed it to H1 and he admitted he had thought the same thing. Anyway, I had a look too, and the scooter was definitely not there, so H1 called the police and the towing company before making his way to work by cycle, where he called the police again and his insurance company and then, presumably, did some work.

Despite our checking every time we walk past, the scooter is definitely no longer there. Nor has it been towed. The only option left is downright dirty thievery. I do wonder why H1's scooter was targeted - it was parked down a private driveway with about seven other scooters, all of which are still there. It was a wise move on their part though, as we had just spent a few hundred quid fixing bits of it and having it serviced, so they got a good deal for their money. Oh wait! No money exchanged hands. They stole it. They got a good deal for their stealing.

We are waiting to hear from the insurance company, and have received a nice letter from the police, stating their dismay at our loss and explaining that, due to a lack of evidence, they won't be looking any further into the case. We do understand that, but the letter arrived Wednesday - not 24 hours after H1 reported the scooter missing. Seriously, they must have been typing it up as H1 talked to them. Quite the efficient force, that Fulham one.

Now that I've accepted the loss, I'm a little mad. Maybe it's showing. It's funny, because the last time we suffered at the hands of a thief, I wasn't mad at all. Although, that said, 'suffer' is maybe too strong a word. 'Laughed' is probably more fitting. We laughed at the hands of a thief.

We were heading out for a nice day somewhere, somewhere in Fulham I imagine, and were walking past the iron railings on the footpath near on the corner of our street when I idly noticed a helmet hanging from the railings. "That looks like mine," I began to utter, before doing a double take and realising it was, in fact, mine. H1 had realised a split second before me, and was busy unclipping it. We turned it over, examining it, ensuring it was actually mine and we weren't in the midst of stealing some other poor girl's helmet, and after deciding it definitely belonged to me and giving it a couple of cautious sniffs, we put it back in the scooter where it lived, and went on our merry way, laughing intermittently all day at the person who had gone to the effort of breaking into the scooter and removing the helmet before getting across the road and deciding they didn't want it after all. I was a little offended - it is an excellent helmet, a soft grey colour with a big flower on the back - but mainly glad I hadn't lost it after all. I still have it actually - it sits resplendent on a shelf, absolutely useless because the scooter has been stolen more successfully than it was, and I'm not yet uncoordinated enough to need it for everyday life. Not yet.

All of this pales, however, when compared to what happened to my friend's sister last week, who was pushed to the ground and kicked in the face during a mugging. People who steal a scooter are one thing, but people who viciously attack another person to gain a handbag containing (lets assume, based on the contents of my handbag) a phone that could be sold for maybe £50, a wallet with a load of cards they can't use, which will be immediately cancelled anyway, and if they're lucky £20 or so in cash, a bunch of screwed up receipts, a half empty packet of mints, four separate lip balms, three pens, and some paracetamol - they're quite another, and there are no jokes to be made about them. This particular attacker was stopped by another stranger who happened to be passing by, and luckily, because that makes this story one that turned out to be ok - one that is sad but has a relieving ending. It makes me happy to be able to say that friend's sister is shaken up but recovering. It also makes me happy to be able to say that friend's sister was already campaigning for better safety around this area (she is obviously an extremely good person who does not deserve this) but now she has gone through it, she can continue her campaigning with a sneer on her face, saying in a deep American voice, "This time it's personal."

So really, we're lucky in the grand scheme of things. I can cope with losing a scooter, nearly losing a helmet, and completely losing my dignity (I was never too attached to it anyway). But I don't know if I could cope with being mugged. Hopefully I will never find out. And hopefully the police will be looking into that case properly, and my friend's sister will not be the recipient of a form letter apologising for her loss.

Going slightly off topic, but too funny not to share, is the tale of a man, your archetypal, absolutely over the top Sloane - lets call him Henry - complaining about his burger in a well known Sloane-y pub the other day. Henry was very upset about the quality of his burger. It wasn't what he would expect from this establishment at all (ahem, it's still a pub). Henry was astounded they would charge £8 for such a burger. Henry had been well and truly ripped off. In fact, Henry had been mugged. (Henry's voice rose to a terrifying screech here, a level that would disturb bats).

I would suggest that perhaps Henry is not familiar with what actually entails a mugging. I'm pretty certain not enjoying your meal is not the same thing. But do correct me if I'm wrong.

A Snowboarding Based Disaster

And so to France, where I went up a mountain, came down a mountain, rinsed, and repeated, until it was time to pack the board into a bag once more and make my weary way back to London.

Superlatives don't do it justice. All I can do to describe this epically stupendous time is to throw adjectives at it in a way designed to make any English teacher cry, tripping over my own words with excitement like a teenage boy confronted with a hot girl who wants to dance. "Wow...um...great...yeah...brilliant...amazing...fantastically incredibly legendarily awesome!"

But a complete and utter disaster of course. Everything just went so smoothly. I left, safe in the knowledge that I'm really quite a dreadful snowboarder, relying more on my total enthusiasm than any natural grace, balance, or talent to get me from top to bottom. I returned, stunned, amused, and quietly* proud that somehow, somewhere, something has stuck, and it turns out I know how to snowboard. And I'm not too bad at it, either. Still a lot to learn, of course, but overall, not too shabby.

Which means I have literally no funny stories about 'things that happened to me while up a tall mountain strapped to a funny shaped wooden board'. Zero. NONE. There were a few falls, of course, but they were minor, undramatic affairs, resulting in nothing more than a couple of giggles and a bit of snow in odd places where I'm not used to encountering snow.

It was with confidence and joy that I took myself off to Meribel, thinking I would come back with scores of hilarious stories that I could write about, providing you lot with some entertainment and letting myself off the crippling hook of insecurity and intense fear that strikes me whenever I can't think what words to put together in what order**. Instead, I am finding myself writing a story about how my traitorous body learnt to snowboard and did me out of some good stories. How very self-reflexive and postmodern. Deconstructed, if you like.***

We went to Meribel on a coach. A big bus, for God's sake. The drive from London to the French Alps is a long one. About fourteen hours or so. The drive back is, funnily enough, about the same length of time. I had thoughts about this...

Me (four days ago): Golly, 28 hours on a coach. Wonder what will happen? Something's bound to happen. Hope it's something funny. Wonder what will happen?

Me (now): Who would think that 28 hours on a coach could pass in such a freakishly uneventful manner? Something must have happened. Think...think...wow. 28 hours on a coach and really, nothing happened? Golly.

Me (four days ago): Golly is a good word. I'm pleased I just thought it, and I intend to use it more often in conversation.

Me (now): I'm really progressing well with this golly usage. Internal high five!

So. An uneventful coach ride, followed by some awesome, but highly restrained, safe, grown up snowboarding, followed by some unspectacular drinking and eating (driving all night and boarding all day means drinking all the next night's just not going to happen, no matter how noble the intentions of the group). Rinse and repeat before returning to London, having had a terrific trip. It doesn't make for a great story.

Right, time for apologies. I know I've been boring and not so funny of late, and something will have to be done about it, before I lose any more fans.**** At this rate, I shall have to start going out. And if that's what it takes, I will, because (hand on heart, Scarlett O'Hara style) as God is my witness, I will never go boring random blog reading victims again.

*Actually very very loud and vocal about my pride in myself.

**Wow, put that way there's not much to this writing business, is there?

***Oh yes, I went to uni. Please don't ask me what those terms mean.

****Oh yeah, I LOST a fan on Facebook! I was horrified, and whatever I've done to make that person decide they are no longer a fan of this blog, I'm sorry. I don't want to seem desperate, but COME BACK! Funnily enough, I then noticed I personally had lost a friend, and greeted that news with a shrug and a meh. But the fan loss - truly crippling.