The Alternative to Zombies

I now know what it would be like to live in London, if London was populated by seventeen other people, all of them female. Right now, at this moment, as I write, there is apparently some sort of game on...football, apparently...oh, it's not good, I can't fake being loftily above it. Despite the fact that nobody in this flat really cares about football (we're all rather disparaging about the fake tears and tantrums, the complete lack of goal-scoring - in a game where this is the one and only aim, and the copiously unnecessary amounts of nylon. Shudder. Some of us are more concerned about the nylon than others), the TV is still on, impassively displaying the end of a football game in which quite a few goals have been scored. Unfortunately, they haven't been scored by the 'right' team (not if you live in England, anyway) so there is the possibility of fires in the street tonight, as great piles of England flags, banners, pendants, and t-shirts are ceremoniously sacrificed.

Only thirty minutes ago, though, H1 and I went for a lovely walk down by the river and through the streets of a post-apocalyptic London. If you've ever watched Danny Boyle's 28 Days Later, you've probably a) not slept normally ever since, and b) wondered how on earth they filmed it, when London is always packed and teeming. Now I know. He just waited until a big football game was on.

It was really quite eerie, which is not a good feeling on a romantic walk on a summer's day. The only other people who were out were few and far between, and were all female. Many were in bikinis. This, too, is not a good feeling on a romantic walk. H1 commented on this. Several times. Several times too many, as I gently yet pointedly noted. He grew quiet. I grew quiet. A tumbleweed blew across the road.

Now, the game (GAME - people of London, particularly those in Fulham, please remember that) has finished. Traffic is running again. The siren count is no higher than earlier. Everything is back to normal (although there are those who would disagree). But I, for one, have seen the alternative to a crushed, overcrowded, smelly, London, and it is scary, even without zombies. I shall never complain about the hordes of people again*.

*This is a lie. This is like saying I will never drink again. It's said with good intentions, but followed through with rather less.

Feeling It

I'm afraid I must begin with a confession. Deep breath - I am writing this after a couple of glasses of champagne. I do hope it all makes sense - I'm terribly sorry if it doesn't.

To be honest, it's highly unlikely it won't. Well, it might, but no more than usual - we certainly can't blame the merry drinks in the sun (oh yes, it's sunny - why do you think we popped the champagne?). I've only had a couple of glasses, spread over a couple of hours, and mitigated by food. By that stage, it's just like drinking water, I hear*.

I do, however, have a rather low tolerance for alcohol - embarrassingly low, at least when I forget this unarguable fact. It's just the way I'm built, and doesn't usually pose a problem, because I'm really good at making sure I eat, drink a large glass of water for every glass of wine, and all the other things magazines and goody-goods tell you to do, but nobody ever does. I do them. I'm that person**. As a result, I don't get falling-down drunk, and I don't get hangovers. I don't like either, so life is good.

Well. Usually, life is good. Usually, I don't get drunk. Usually, I don't get hangovers.

A few weeks ago, with H1 having been merrily waved off on a holiday that I had no desire to go on (if watching cars go round and round and round again can be considered a holiday) I met up with some of my nearest, dearest friends, to enjoy a few civilised drinks in leafy Fulham.

I woke up thinking I was going to die.

Because I don't usually get hangovers, I was confused, and more than a little terrified. I woke up really early. My eyes couldn't open properly. They were stuck together somehow. My mouth couldn't open properly. It, too, was stuck together somehow.

I needed water. 'Gaaah,' I said, but nothing happened. 'Gaaah,' I repeated, but again, nothing.

I pried my eyes open further, only to note that there was nobody in my room to help me. Vague memories of saying goodbye to H1 slowly filled my fuzzy head. I decided to wait for him to return from his three day holiday, and closed my eyes again.

I woke up again. I thought time had passed, but wasn't sure. I was still experiencing problems, with the added complication of a sore head and - feet? Why did my feet hurt?

Slowly, painfully, I slid out of bed. My feet landed on the sharp heel part of a discarded pair of high heels. OH. The sore feet made sudden sense. I limped on them to the kitchen, where I had a short sharp series of heart attacks. Someone had broken into my home! And was in my kitchen!

The stranger turned. It was my friend. OH. My friend and her husband, recently arrived from New Zealand and homeless, were sleeping on our living room floor. She had been out with me the night before! But if she was with me...

She looked at me. Her face was white. Her eyes had a haunting look of desperation in them. I stared into them and saw my own despair looking back at me.

We had water. Food was agreed upon. Somehow, it was made. We took it into the lounge, to be confronted by the husband.

OH.

He was out last night, too. With other people. And it was his first experience of the notorious 'English 8%' beer.

We sat. We ate. We drank more water. We didn't bother with communication. We understood it was for the greater good. Outside, as if reading our mood, London was silent. The sky was grey. No cars went by, no planes flew overhead. It was like the moment's silence one observes when there is a national tragedy.

Eventually, somebody said something. Someone else laughed, then stopped abruptly, clutching their head in pain. Slowly, conversation resumed. The previous night was dissected. Memories were filled in.

And at some point, somebody said the immortal words. The words we've all said, or at least thought. The words that may just be the world's truest.

'We're too old for this.'

And we were. We are! The worst thing to be recollected? Not that we spent the night before embarrassingly drunk. But that we didn't. This hangover, this nasty nasty detoxification, was the result of what was, in all honesty, a rather tame night.

You see, as you age, the body can't handle what it once could. There's an explanation. It's to do with medical stuff***. But it gets everyone eventually. Sure, perhaps they still ID you down at the supermarket when you're buying a nice bottle of wine (for the record, shoving your face at the startled cashier, drumming on the side of your eye with one finger, and snarling, 'Buddy, see these wrinkles? These are not the wrinkles of a seventeen year old!' does not count as ID) but the fact of the matter is, you're not as young as you allegedly look. And that same bottle of wine, shared between two responsible adults, is going to make you feel miserable the next morning.

(But if you drink it with lots of water in between, you'll be fine. Trust me.)

*I am not a doctor - this does not constitute medical advice or views. But, I'm right.

**By 'person', you have my permission to read 'goody-good'.

***Still not a doctor.

It Makes Me Sleep Easier

I live on a fairly main road, which encounters frequent traffic, all hours of the day and night. Thankfully, the bedroom is at the back of the flat, so the noise of the cars, motorbikes, scooters, bikes, and occasional-yet-unpleasant hordes of football fans doesn't tend to reach my sleeping ears. To be honest, even if it did, my sleeping ears probably would just go right on sleeping. Not much will wake me up when I'm under. A burglar could come in through our front window, take our terrorist teapot and the awesome red beanbag, and be gone again, without me being at all aware until I tried to make a pot of tea, or sit in the corner. Admittedly, he (or she, no sexism here, no sirree) would have to be a quiet burglar, and an agile one (we are some floors up) but it is theoretically possible. Although a BAD IDEA. A CCTV camera points straight at our house, all you would-be burglars may like to note.

The irony, of course, is that the one thing that will wake me up promptly and without fail, is the sound of a police siren wailing as the car of those valiant lawkeepers speeds up the road. In London, the sirens are out of control noisy, a painfully piercing shriek that prevents conversing, moving, or even thinking when they go by. Anyone who grew up in London may not be aware that this is not normal - that police sirens in other cities know you can use your outdoor voice without causing premature hearing loss in innocent bystanders. But trust me, the volume and sheer intensity of these sirens is not an international standard.

Neither is the alarming frequency with which they go by. We don't live in a particularly high-crime area (well, we didn't, recent events notwithstanding), but all the same, police cars seem to be a pretty constant phenomenon around here. I'm never too sure why they're there, or where they're going. Experience has taught us that they're certainly not chasing down scooter or racing bike thieves (oh yes, H1's racing bike got stolen too, I've just been too angry to mention it until now. Swallow the anger, bury the resentment, Marge Simpson style). The more cynical of us may suggest it is in some way related to the traffic jams that are also a frequent feature of the road, but cynicism has no place here. I wouldn't even dream of suggesting that the two could be in any way linked.

It is good to feel so safe in this street, however. What with the aforementioned CCTV camera, which completely ignores the park, homeless people, and bar/club/nightmare across the road, in favour of being permanently trained on the well-known and notorious area of my living room, and the reassuring consistency of the police cars screaming up and down, I'm sure H1 and I will never find ourselves the victims of petty crime. Well, not again, anyway. I sleep soundly in that belief, until woken.

SUMMER!!!

Hello! The sun is shining. The weather is warm. The pigeon didn't die on our doorstep.

Yes, it's all good news around here. I'm sorry May was so quiet and dull. I was working. I've learnt a lesson, and shall try not to make that mistake again.

And now it's June, and I'm back! Just a short one, to get us back in the habit...lets start with a round up of what has happened in May. Grab a coffee, and lets have a quick catch up:

1. There were two bank holidays. The weather was bad on both of them.

2. Went to Bournemouth. It rained. But H1 did amazingly, superbly well in his cycle race. I am very proud of him, and hope our children inherit his sporty genes.

3. I worked in the City. Refer to above for my thoughts on that. But - I've stayed a nice person! (Nice-ish). Guess it takes more than that to bring me down.

4. I saved the best for last. Sit down before you read on...

An icecream shop opened next door to my house.

My heartrate has quickened just at the thought of it. This is literally, genuinely, the best thing ever to happen in Fulham. It's a nice, proper icecream shop, with Italian-style gelato. What can you say but prego?

Oh oh, I almost forgot...AND they keep plying us with two for one vouchers. I am very excited to try some (yes, haven't actually had any yet - you don't think I would neglect this to eat icecream, do you? Oh no, if there's no time for blog updating, there's no time for icecream...)

So that was May. I think some other stuff happened - oh yes, new government, well, two for the price of one, actually - but that's very unlikely to affect me. While everyone else stresses about the age of austerity that must now come upon England, as there's no money left (truly, that's what the departing Secretary of the Treasury left in his handover notes!) I merely plan how to avoid it.

Ok! Time to wrap this up, keep it short and sweet as promised. I shall, however, be back very soon - retain your faith - I shall not leave it so long again! It's just been a balancing act of working out how to work in the City, and write about the city. And now, I think I have it sorted.