Notting Hill Carnival

I told you I had lots to write about. Three posts in three days! Its almost like the good old days of last year when I could find so many things to write about and annoy you with that I’d have 16, 17 posts in one month! Amazing!

When I got back from Norway on Sunday, one of the things I noticed through my jet-lag and hang-over was a poster for the Notting Hill Carnival. It had an intriguing image (a policeman pulling a giant purple feather out of a tree) and told me that I shouldn’t miss Britain’s largest carnival. And I thought, well, no, I really shouldn’t miss that, which I suspect is every advertisers’ dream response to one of their ads. Anyway, I slowly and painfully tried to focus my eyes on the dates and even in my sleep-deprived, alcohol-induced haze, I had a sense that these dates were very soon. Possibly happening right at that very time. That I was currently within the dates of the Notting Hill Carnival, which was Britain's biggest carnival and I was missing it and I had been told explicitly by the poster not to do so.

Slightly distressed, but with jetlag winning out over anxiety, I went home and went to sleep. When I woke up I checked the internet for details. Turned out the carnival was happening Sunday and also the next day, which was a bank holiday I hadn’t heard about. And I remembered again what the poster said and thought, ‘Hmmm… yes, I really shouldn’t miss that,’ and decided to go the next day.

After a slow start on the Monday, I managed to get dressed and out of the house by around 1pm. The route to Notting Hill from Clapham Common seemed ridiculously and unnecessarily complicated and the maps of the event provided (well, not provided) on the Notting Hill Carnival website were unhelpful to say the least. But, I finally managed to find a map of the parade route via Time Out and ventured out with a vague idea of a variety of stations that I could get out at. I had originally planned to get dressed-up, put on some make-up etc. but in the end I couldn’t be bothered and went for my comfy clothes, thinking, ‘oh, its just an outdoor festival, how big a deal can it be, really?’

Well, I tell you, faithful reader, it’s a pretty big deal. The outfits people had created included glitter, feathers, wings, wigs, temporary tattoos, face painting, short-shorts, high hair, platform shoes, intricate nail decorations, bling-bling and that was just on the spectators. Having misunderstood the meaning of ‘carnival’, I had pictured markets, food stalls, maybe a ferris wheel and some cans I could try to knock over with a ball to win a teddy bear. But this was ‘Carnival’ with a capital ‘c’, more related to the Brazilian celebrations than to your local state fair. 

Now that is what I call a sash-ay!

I love this guy.

When I visited Latin America in 2008/2009, I was adamant that I had no interest in Brazil, no interest in Carnival, that it would be a ridiculously expensive, debauched, loud, crowded, dangerous party with lots of boobs and booty and it was all tacky and totally not my scene. I would nobly hike the Andes in Peru and Chile, I would gape over Iguazu Falls in Argentina, but I would not, WOULD NOT be dragged into the spectacular monstrosity that was Brazilian Carnival. But, after this (and realising that Notting Hill Carnival is on a slightly smaller scale to the one in Brazil), I suddenly understand the appeal.

He stuck his tongue out at me afterwards! And I missed it!

It didn’t start well. The closer I got to the Central line, the more packed the underground got. People were worried about the Olympics, but my god, the traffic for the Olympics had nothing on the carnival. The tunnels to and from platforms were literally packed full from side to side with people, heads down, slowly shuffling in one direction. If anything bad had happened, anything from someone having a stroke, to a terrorist attack, there was really nothing anyone could have done. There was hardly any room for anyone to get away at any speed. I’m a little claustrophobic, so I had to force myself not to fixate on those thoughts, breathe calmly and not let loose the panic that was slowly rising in my throat. Once on the actual train, things weren’t much better, everyone was packed in like those pictures you see of Tokyo in rush hour. But as soon as I got to Queensway and got outside into the fresh air, things started to improve.

Boo-yeah!

The streets had been blocked off and people wandered about happily, blowing whistles or using those horrible vuvuzelas everyone had at the South Africa World Cup. People were drinking and carousing and just generally having a great time. There was music blasting out from restaurants, cheap tat being sold on every corner and I kept getting hit by waves of barbeque smelling smoke every time I turned a corner. There was a buzz in the air that was impossible to ignore or resist.

I was disappointed when I finally found the parade route, as there was nothing to see except empty street. I hung around awkwardly for a bit, uncertain if I should wait for the parade to come to me, or if I should go to it. Eventually, I decided the latter, buying two ciders along the way so that I could fit in with the drunken comrades surrounding me.

I think this is my favourite photo of the day. These girls are gorgeous.

I eventually found the parade, which had been halted for unknown reasons. It was a little ridiculous really, all these amazingly-dressed performers, in sparkly underpants and headdresses and gigantic artworks strapped to their backs all kind of just hanging out, picking at their nails, snacking and for all the world trying to act has if they didn't have the equivalent of 20 ostrich's feathers exploding out of their shoulders. But when they finally started up again, I couldn’t keep the grin off my face, nor could I stop myself bopping around embarrassingly and knocking into the crowds on either side of me. The music was pumping so loudly I could feel it vibrating in my breast plate. Perhaps not so great for my ears, but still, I can’t help getting fired up by something so loud and visceral. People danced in the streets and the roofs with each other, with the performers, on their own. At one point an unknown man came up to me and started dancing with me, but over-balancing, he ended up falling on top of me... I landed on my tailbone in the gutter and lost the rest of my cider, but I was in such a good mood, I couldn’t stop laughing. It was like that scene in Muriel’s Wedding when Matt Day unzips the bean-bag and Toni Collette goes into hysterical screeching giggles and its all just so painful. That was me, the hysterically giggling one, lying on her backside in a Notting Hill gutter, surrounded by empty beer cans and stray feathers. I’m paying for it now, of course, massive bruise on my behind which is making sitting down at any speed rather uncomfortable.

I had only intended to go for an hour or two to ‘check it out’, but I ended up staying all afternoon. And I was just on my own. I’m sure it would have been much more fun with friends, so I intend to grab a posse next year, deck myself out in glitter and feathers and live it up.

Either that, or I’m moving to Jamaica. 

'Oh, excuse me, I think I may have mislaid my friend amongst your feathers.'

And, well, you know me:

I might just do it.

Random London Evenings

I don't know why I've become so reluctant to blog over the past few weeks. Its not like I haven't been doing things. I mean, its London! Of course I've been doing things! But, for whatever reason, possible blog topics have eluded me. There's this general sense of, 'Oh, yes, but, you know, that's just what I do now. I just visit the Tate Modern on my lunch break, no biggie.' Forgetting that Jenny of only a year or so ago would have lost her mind over someone who just visited the Tate Modern on their lunch break. I am now that Jenny and yet, I am still (as far as I can tell), in possession of my mind. Sorry, have just started on cider with blackberry liquer (seriously? I LOVE the cider selection in my local Sainsbury's), so the sentences may be weird. And, also, why is it I only seem to blog when drinking? Not good for grammar and punctuation skills and as we have established before I judge people pretty harshly for those things and I don't exclude myself from that harsh judgement, meaning I'll probs wake up tomorrow morning re-read this post and decide that I my 18 years of education were clearly all a waste because I am evidently so dumb and a completely undateable human being. 
ANYWHO. As I said, its not like there hasn't been things to talk about. I was with the fam in Edinburgh and then the Lake District, the latter of which I had never been to and it was just lovely. 'I wandered lonely as a cloud', except I was with my brother and dad and stepmother and I don't like Wordsworth. But, despite reserving a special kind of hatred for Wordsworth's over-the-top sentimentality, I had to admit I was quite the fan of his taste in landscapes. Well played, Wordsworth, well played.
I returned to London and started work experience with a young theatre company called Tonic, which is run by a very talented young director, who I very much enjoy being around and hearing her opinions on things. My main task has been research into climate change for a new play of theirs, which has slightly skewed my perspective on everything in my life whereby I've stopped imagining someday buying a nice apartment in some fabulous metropolis and settling down with a lovely bloke and instead have decided to start stockpiling tinned foods in the mountains somewhere and learning how to build fires and find fresh water. But, apart from my paranoia, its been great.
I've been to no less than two rooftop parties with hipsters in Brick Lane, which I think makes me dangerously close to being a hipster too, but luckily I don't have funky glasses or work in graphic design or am incredibly skinny... on all other accounts though, I'm dangerously close.

Tommie Smith. In Clapham. Uh-mazing.

And, then, last night I had one of those wonderfully random evenings that you can't quite explain but only really happen in big cities. I had been signing up to my local library on Thursday and happened to see a flyer for a screening on Friday evening of a documentary about Tommie Smith and John Carlos (the runners who made the black power slaute on the Olympic podium at the 1968 Mexico City Olympics. In tiny letters at the bottom of the flyer, it stated that Tommie Smith himself would be at a Q&A afterwards. I thought, really? Tommie Smith? He's going to be in my local library? And, I thought, that's something I really gotta see. I'm kind of a sook and I do cry at a lot of things, but that image is one of those things that tends to get me choked up no matter what the circumstances. The documentary wasn't amazing (an ESPN TV documentary with many fast cut aways and lots of 'inspirational' music with little on historical detail), but it was certainly a thrill to be in the same room as Tommie Smith and to hear him speak. He's certainly a character.
My housemate and I then headed home, where I changed and got ready to go to an all-night theatre performance. And, when I say all-night, I mean, all-night. It started at 11:45pm and went through until 6am. At the risk of making it sound naff, it was an 'interactive' piece based on Medea. But, it was so much more incredible and beautiful and magical than any interactive piece I've ever seen before.
The first half was the wedding of Medea and Jason. When we entered the space, the actors had these huge tents of coloured ribbons attached to their torsos, which they were spinning around in and we could stand under the giant tents with the actors and watch as the ribbons twirled around us and over us and past us. Music was playing loudly and lights were flashing. It was gorgeous, it was so joyful. The marriage of Medea and Jason was exciting and happened around us and with us. We played music, wrote rhymes for the couple, prepared them for the wedding ceremony. After a quick tea, coffee and biscuit break at 2am (in which I grabbed far too many biscuits and tea - caffeine! sugar! must keep up energy!) we went back into the space. This was probably my favourite moment of the whole night. We sat in the now empty space where we had witnessed Jason and Medea's wedding. A group of women dressed in white 'peasant' women, who came through the crowd and took some of us by the hand, two at a time. I was one of the people chosen by a peasant woman. They took us into another room and got us into our pyjamas at which point it became clear that we were meant to be Jason and Medea's children. We were put to bed, read a story, given hot chocolate and then told to go to sleep. During this time, a scene between Jason and Medea had a scene in the middle of the room, which the other half of the audience watched. I had a hard time not also wanting to watch and my 'nanny' had to keep telling me to go back to sleep, tucking me in and stroking my head. There was something so wonderfully warm and comforting about the whole experience that I really didn't want to end, nor did I ever want to leave my wonderful nanny (who I continued to refer to as 'my nanny' in my head whenever I saw her in the show afterwards).
Many other things happened that were so much fun, but I don't have the words or the time to describe them all. Apart from the show itself, which was wonderful, just being in the Southbank Centre at an odd time was magical in its own right. We had tea, coffee and biscuit breaks on the roof of the Southbank Centre at 2am and 4am and then at 6am. There's something so peaceful and special about seeing a big city late at night. Its not completely dead, of course, I don't think big cities ever are, but there's something wonderful about seeing these big, empty spaces with only two people strolling slowly though them, holding hands, swaying their arms of spinning around. At 6am, we were given breakfast on a long table, with lovely china (some of it looked like it had come from 'Hungry Tea') and with the cast.
It was a wonderful experience, though oddly lonely, considering the huge crowd of people surrounding me. Everyone else had pretty much come with someone else and, despite the interactive nature of the show and that fact that during the show I spoke to many people, something about seeing them all in the morning light rather than in the darkness when being asked to do strange things meant I couldn't talk to them. I leaned against the concrete of the Southbank Centre roof, looked over the orange sky of London and the happy, peaceful people sharing bread and fruit and wished desperately I had someone to share it all with. Of course, there was no-one, so I went home to bed instead.
Don't feel too bad for me. I do have plenty of friends over here and it was all my own fault for not inviting someone to go with me. And, that's kind of the interesting thing, because normally going to the theatre is such a complete experience for me that I don't feel I need to go with anyone; I can enjoy it on my own. The strange thing was that even though was a complete experience, it was so unique, that I wanted desperately to be able to share it with someone.
Anyway, that's by the by. It was a pretty fab and totally random night. I'm totally wrecked today though. I fell asleep at 6:30pm and woke up again at 7:30pm in the kind of exhausted haze that can only be solved by eating high-sugar, comfort food and then going to bed at a normal hour the next evening. I was meant to go out tonight and I just couldn't manage it. Instead, I am lying horizontal on the couch, watching 'Bridesmaids' and drinking cider. Its pretty good.

Lost in London

Its been ages, I know, I'm sorry. And then I went and changed the blog address on you all, so if you had happened to think, 'Oh, I haven't heard from Jenny in a while and I do enjoy her blog posts so and I just miss her so much, I might go and read back over the ones she wrote last year, just to remind me of how amusing and wonderful a friend she is.' I mean, I don't want to put words in your mouth, but maybe you did think that. Or, perhaps you thought instead, 'God, that Jenny is such a terrible writer, but reading her grammatically-incorrect, self-absorbed and uninteresting blog posts makes me feel better about my own writing skills, so I might go back and look over some of those abuses-of-the-English-language that she wrote last year.' Either way, you would have gone back to your little bookmark (of COURSE you have my blog bookmarked) and the always-trustworthy internet would have told you the address didn't exist, or wasn't right. So, I do apologise if I ruined your morning by not having my blog available. I'm sure you got over it pretty quickly. But, now you know. After a long consultation with my business manager (ie a Skype gossip with my bestie, Erin), we decided that the address had to change. So, as you can see it now has 'UK' in the address now too. The only problem is if I continue to travel and then keep adding the new countries into the old address, and then it becomes, like, three lines long.
But, I will with that later. You know, if I move to NY or something... Which I could do.
Anyway... to London. I am loving London. It is a fantastic city with so much going on. I have been doing many things. I have been going to the theatre, the V&A museum, the Tate Modern, out for drinks, out for lunch. I got a free frisbee on Thursday and then watched the Olympic Torch go by Clapham Common with a mate. The other night I stayed out until 4:45am and then took the Night Bus home and watched the sun come up over London. It was awesome.
One of the greatest things anyone can say to me at the moment is, 'You've only been here 3 weeks? Really? You seem like you've been here ages!' That makes me feel hugely superior. I try not to stretch back in my chair and put my hands behind my head, but, believe me, I do that in my mind. 'Ah, yes,' I think, 'Well, I'm just suited to London, I'm such a London person, that, of course, I look like I've been here forever.'
Of course, I still have to look like a tourist sometimes. And the most common time is when I've come out of a new London tube station, in a new London suburb and attempt to find where I need to go next. I stare at the tiny square map on the wall of the station for 10 minutes, and then I go outside the station and stare at the road for 10 minutes, and then I go back to the map, and then back to the street and then I make a decision about which way I need to turn. I walk up the road for 10 minutes, where I check another map on the side of a bus stand and realise I've gone the wrong way. By this time I'm late, so I turn around and run in the opposite direction and then I realise the problem is I've actually gone out the wrong exit of the station at which point I run through the station, carefully avoiding the people (or crashing into them) and repeat the process on the other side. Eventually, I end up at the thing that I'm going to, but an hour late, sweaty as all hell and with a confused neighbourhood behind wondering who the slightly-crazed looking red-faced girl is and why she keeps running back and forth in front of them and around in circles muttering to herself.
I went to Manchester last weekend, just because.... well, I'm in England and there was a cheap train ticket and there was something I wanted to see in Manchester, so I went, 'hell, why not?' I was actually better at navigating my way around Manchester than I am navigating my way around London, which is... odd. Well, it probably isn't, but, I was still amused. Make something amusing out of that, would you? I'm distracted by the repeats of Friends that are on the TV and the fact that I really, really, need to get going.
Today, I am heading up to Edinburgh to see my Dad and stepmum, who are over to celebrate Dad's b'day! Hooray! So, I don't know that I'll be writing much more anytime soon. I will try to report back during the week, but we'll just see how I go.
Apologies for the less than interesting blog post, but at least its nice and short, to fit in between your morning coffee and bagel... or whatever you eat... and I just thought I should write something (anything) before the end of July, give you all the new blog address and, you know, get my blog stats up again, because, as we all know I'm totally obsessed with that.

Tube Map. Not as straightforward as it would at first appear. Found at:http://www.gonative.com/london_tube_map.aspx

London is Totally Worth It

I'm in a bit of a bind with this blog. Can you see the web address? Go have a look at it. See how it has the word Ireland in it? I'm not sure if I am technically allowed to continue writing about my experiences in the UK on a blog that has a (part) Irish address.
Yes, ok, as far as problems go, even as far as first world problems go, this is not a particularly big deal. But, these are the things I spend my days contemplating at the moment. I haven't really felt like writing much in the last few days and I'm beginning to wonder if its in some way magically and intrinsically linked to the title of my blog.
Well, its either that or that despite being in London, despite there being 10 million other people surrounding me (which, by my calculations makes for at least 10 million opportunities and probably more when you factor in people combinations of groups of two or more), despite the world-famous London sights and attractions, despite the celebrated theatres, the impressive museums, the impending Olympics.... well, I haven't actually been doing that much of note.
Exhibit A: Last night I drank an entire bottle of red wine and watched 'The Devil Wears Prada' on my own, curled up on the couch, smiling to myself and quietly declaring that this was absolutely my favourite film ever because of its very important story which is only enhanced by its (mostly) excellent outfits and wishing I could be made over by Stanley Tucci and emotionally abused by Meryl Streep. I didn't mean to drink an entire bottle of wine by myself, I'm not actually an alcoholic (or Bridget Jones - though I AM one step closer now that I'm in London! Weeee...), I had bought it thinking I would drink a glass or two and then share it with one or all of my housemates. But they never came home. Well, they did come home, but only after I had drunk the majority of the bottle (I blame the over-large wine glass) and then convinced myself there really wasn't much left and there wasn't really much point in saving it, so I may as well drink it anyway and poured that into my glass as well.
Needless to say I'm feeling a little seedy this morning.
Anyway, the point is that after I got my new UK number, set-up my bank account, applied for an NIN number and started sending out my CV to all and sundry, it turned out I didn't actually have a lot to do. There are only so many jobs you can apply for in one day, only so many job websites you can look at. Especially when they don't change, no matter how many times you push the refresh button. Some people may enjoy this feeling of having nothing to do and spend their time reading improving books and exercising. I spend it drinking entire bottles of wine on my own and watching bad/good Anne Hathaway movies. I'm healthy when I'm busy, otherwise my underlying anxiety seems to just take over.
Don't worry, I'm not feeling low about being in London (see the blog title?) But I am at a bit of a loss as to what to do with myself until I get a job. June was so crazy-busy, even leaving Ireland happened incredibly suddenly, I didn't even get a chance to have a farewell and OMG, I forgot to visit the Book of Kells! So to suddenly land in London on Monday morning, get into my new apartment ridiculously easily, all things considered (all my housemates were already at work) and then be like, 'OK! I'm ready to....oh. Ummm.... Not sure.' Mainly I've been sitting in Caffe Nero, nursing a 1.90 tea and using their free internet for hours because we haven't got ours set-up in the apartment yet. I think the very nice baristas don't really like me very much anymore. Especially since yesterday, after I had sat for hours in their cafe, using their free internet and not ordering anything more, I then went to use the toilet and slammed the bathroom door into one of their faces (in my defence, she was writing on the back of the door, so, like, I couldn't really help it). In the evening time I have been catching up with a few people or going to London networking-type things with young, hip people (all the women in London are so beautiful and stylish. I'm going to have to up my game) and a few older business people. I got abused by a UK charity store worker for not obeying the change room rules of asking before trying on clothes, which seemed like such a hilariously British thing to get worked up about (You didn't follow the rules! You didn't get permission!) that I didn't even really mind being yelled at. I did go to see a little theatre show on Friday night at the Blue Elephant Theatre, which was very sweet. Didn't change my life, but enjoyable enough.
So, I'm glad that I've found something with which to fill my time. Its called 'You Me Bum Bum Train' and I can't tell you anything about it (seriously, I signed a non-disclosure agreement. And I feel lik breaking a non-disclosure agreement on a public blog would sort of be like ending your vegetarianism by going out, killing a bison with your bare hands and a knife and then eating it whilst its innards were still warm. 'Eugh. That seems an unnecessarily gruesome comparison, Jenny.' 'Indeed. I blame the bottle of red from last night, Jenny' 'Going to take it down?' 'Nope, pretty happy with the gruesome comparison, to be honest.' 'Hope no-one's eating reading your blog and eating breakfast.' 'Me too.' 'Well, as nice as this extended segue has been, shall we get back to the point?' 'Well, ok, I guess, if you're going to get all narky about it....'). ANYWAY, what I can tell you about 'You Me Bum Bum Train' (apart from the fact that it is an absolute joy to say and seems to work even better in a really broad Aussie accent and/or Kath and Kim accent - we're talking original Kath and Kim here, Americans) is that it involves my voluntary labour now and later it involves me performing, so I'm excited about that and the people involved are excited about the number of hours I have, at this point in time, committed to spending with them. Oh, the joys of unemployment. But, still, in terms of things that I could commit my unemployed life to, I feel that an interactive theatre piece (don't worry, that's been used in publicity descriptions before, no dead bison here) is probably a better thing to devote my time to, then, say, daytime TV and 'The Real Housewives of Orange County'. Ok, so its not getting junkies off the street or giving out food at a soup kitchen (hmmm... maybe I should do that...), but its worthwhile, its active, its creative, it encourages me to get out of bed, get dressed and head out further into the city of London than the Caffe Nero that is 5 minutes down the road.
Speaking of which, its probs time I got up and got going.

If we measure in terms of number of visits and time spent in a place, Caffe Nero at Clapham Common would appear to be my favourite place in London so far. Caffe Nero or my new bed, which has a view of my street. Found at: http://www.citikey.co.uk/display/caffe-nero-QRW1Z

London, Baby!

I’ve arrived safely in London after a huge amount of stress over the end of last week. I’m sure most of you already know, but for those of you who missed the updates, last Monday I was told I had to leave Ireland on Friday and there was no way to get another extension of my visa. I was ok with this until about Wednesday, when the UK embassy had still not returned my passport from my visa application. I attempted to cancel my application via fax and did not get a reply. On the Thursday, I attempted to cancel my application again. When I still did not have a reply by 3:30pm, I panicked and called everyone I could think of, eventually getting the UK embassy to call me back. They informed me that my passport was in the UK, where all visa applications must now be sent for a decision. Turned out, very luckily, that my passport was in the next mailbag, arriving Friday, but they were still uncertain whether or not it would arrive in the morning or the afternoon. My flight was at 5pm, so I had a little bit of leeway, but not much. I spent Friday half preparing to leave Dublin and half deciding what I would do if my passport wasn’t returned in time. At 2:30pm, I got a call from the UK embassy to say not only was my passport returned, but my visa was approved, which made me deliriously happy and I then spent the next 20 minutes running around the house madly, alternately giggling and squealing and in between times attempting to remember what things I still needed to pack. I left the house at 2:50pm to find a taxi. I had to get to an internet café and print out the email from the UK embassy, then get to the UK embassy to pick up the passport and then get to the airport in time for my flight. Of course, there were no taxis in sight and I ended up running all the way to the internet café with my giant backpacker’s backpack on my back and another in my hand. Then, I attempted to get a taxi from the internet café to the UK embassy, but, apparently, no taxis in Dublin take credit card, so I had to run to find an ATM, where I panicked and pulled apart both backpacks on the floor of the convenience store, thinking I had left my wallet in the internet café (I hadn’t), finally collapsing in a sweaty, red-faced heap into the next taxi that came along. I got to the airport (admiring my very fancy UK visa all the way), dropped off my bags and got through security 5 minutes before my gate was supposed to close, but luckily Aer Lingus was 10 minutes behind, so I even had time to buy a drink and gobble up my egg sandwich dinner before boarding. Luxurious.

By the time I got to my favourite hostel in the whole world (Palmer’s Lodge Swiss Cottage), I was so utterly zonked I couldn’t even begin to focus on anything as ‘complex’ as my Bill Bryson book, so ended up staring uncritically, mouth open, at the whatever movie the hostel was showing, which I think was some kind of paranoid, terrorist airplane thriller thing called ‘Red-Eye’. All I really remember is the girl shoving a pen into Cillian Murphy’s windpipe, which keeps making my throat feel very vulnerable.

Yesterday, I was so excited about being back in London that I actually broke myself.

When I’m in cities for the first time, I prefer walking around them to taking public transport, because I think it gives you a better idea of the place, it helps with your sense of orientation and you often stumble upon many amazing things that you overlooked or ignored in your guide book. Even though I’ve been to London before, I think that the approved visa gave me some strange sense of ownership over the city and I was all, ‘Yeah, I’m gonna walk all over this town! You hear that, London? You’re my town!’ Forgetting that London isn't really a 'town' that you can walk from end to end and see the majority of it, but is more like, oh, shall we call it a 'mega-city'? Which does not encourage walking.

Anyway, ignoring this little fact, I walked from my hostel in Swiss Cottage to Sloane Square. Here is an approximate map of the route I took provided by google:

I'm getting tired just looking at it.

You may well ask what the hell did I think I was doing, there is a perfectly good underground system, and what was I trying to prove by walking that far and didn’t it waste heaps of time that I could have been sightseeing in and surely there are nicer places to walk then central London, anyway. In my defence, last April I walked from Swiss Cottage to Covent Garden and it was a most pleasant, spontaneous and colourful journey, in which I bought a pink and lacy top and took a boat ride on the lake in Regent’s Park (see post here: http://ohtheplacesyoullgoireland.blogspot.co.uk/2011_04_01_archive.html). I thought it would be similarly delightful this time around. Of course, I forgot that the last time I did this walk it was charmingly balmy, with a ‘burning’ sun and blue skies. Yesterday, it was grey and cold. And the ‘stroll’was quite a bit longer, clocking in at 2 and a half hours. By the time I got to the Royal Court Theatre (which was my quarry), my thighs were chafed, my knees were aching and I was experiencing a slight dizziness, which I can only attribute to extreme hunger and/or dehydration.

The only upside to the walk was that I unexpectedly came across Thames House and the MI6 building (I think, really, considering what they do, the only way that one should come across Thames House and the MI6 building is ‘unexpectedly’). I’ve been going through a revival of my obsession with ‘Spooks’, so I was utterly delighted to find myself outside of the British intelligence headquarters. I kept smiling at the CCTV cameras outside Thames House, wondering if someone was inside watching me; and then worrying that if someone was inside watching me, they might get suspicious if I was smiling unaccountably at the CCTV cameras; and then attempting to ‘act normal’ and not look at the CCTV cameras no matter what, which I’m sure made me look even more suspicious and it all just went down hill from there. Well, downhill, in that I would have looked like a lunatic, not, downhill in that people came out of Thames House and disappeared me. I mean, obviously. Its not like they'd allow me to blog from an MI5 safe house. Unless they did let me just to confuse you all. NO, but, really, anyway... On the upside, the MI6 building is really very impressive. Its as if, when they designed it, they sort of thought, 'Now, if Hollywood was designing a spy building, what would it look like?' And then they designed exactly like that. I was so inspired, I went back to the hostel and looked up online whether or not I would be allowed to join MI5 or MI6 on my youth work permit, and, I don’t think you’ll be surprised to find out, I’m not allowed to. But, as some of their workers end up dead inside gym bags, and my anxiety is sometimes so monumental that I can’t even get through the daily newspapers without needing a little lie-down, this is probably a good thing.

I booked some tickets at the Royal Court and then headed back to Charing Cross to see a Lucian Freud exhibition, which was absolutely brilliant, if a little crowded. Lucian is a very famous British portrait painter who had many lovers and many babies and also happened to do incredibly raw, vulnerable and exposing paintings. And, I mean, exposing in a psychological way, though many of them are exposing in the physical way as well. I’ve always loved portraiture, as opposed to landscape art (which I sometimes find boring – though not Monet, Turner or van Gogh), or conceptual art (which I often find confusing). After 2 hours of the art, I was back on the tube for Sloane Square and a 3:30pm matinee at the Royal Court – a new play about the Nigerian-British community, quite funny, quite interesting, really harrowing ending.

Then, because I felt like I really hadn’t walked enough that day, I walked back to Swiss Cottage, via Covent Garden, at which point I collapsed into the kitchen of my hostel and devoured two large salads, a baguette and a large yoghurt with cherries. It still wasn’t really enough.

Today, all I have been doing is recovering from yesterday. I’ve spent the time sitting around staring at my compute and looking into London jobs and accommodation, which is more than a little exciting. But, also intimidating. Part of me still doesn’t believe that I’ll be living here in just a few weeks time. It’s going to be quite the culture shock from Ireland. The city is so overwhelmingly huge. There are so many people. Its so expensive. I’m a little scared.
In Dublin, you can’t pay for a taxi with your credit card, in London, I can buy a 1.95 pound tea with a credit card. In Dublin, if you ask for milk with your tea, they simply hand you over a jug, in London, they look at you waiting for further direction. ‘Milk? Yes? Soy? Full-Fat? Skim? Low-Fat? Hot? Cold?’

I don’t know, I don’t know, I just want milk!

Ah, first world problems. 

London Again, or, Cambridge Again

This post may be a little incoherent. I calculate that I've had around 10 hours sleep over the last 4 nights, and I used most of my remaining brain power at work this morning, attempting to come up with better words with which to describe people's plays other than, 'good' and 'nice' and 'interesting'. And, when I say I used my brain power, I mean I typed those word into the thesaurus thingy on the side of the computer, and then got grumpy when the thesaurus didn't feed back the specific word I wasn't thinking of and couldn't remember. Even that was almost too much effort. I spent a lot of time knocking into things and tripping over things in the office today. Sleep deprivation obviously affects my spatial awareness.
But, anyway. 
Last Saturday, which, the more observant of you will realise was St. Patrick's Day, I took an evening plane to London. This might seem madness to you all, and I was a little disappointed myself when I realised I would be spending another St. Patrick's Day away from the big celebrations, but after simply attempting to walk through Dublin around 5pm, after the parade, and after all the drinking had started, I was glad to be leaving the city. I have never seen so many people in one place before. Let alone that much cheap green stuff. I was dressed all in red, and I felt like I was the singer in some music video, pushing grumpily through a sea of green whilst being all art-y and misunderstood. You know, 'Bitter Sweet Symphony' but in colour and with a girl and more people. That sort of thing.
I got into London with relatively little fuss, though I stood for many minutes in a queue to have my passport checked only to be told by the passport man that as I had come from Ireland, I needn't have bothered. Ah, well, you live you learn. I feel that sentence accurately sums up the entirety of my two and a half days in London. Before last weekend, I was very bad at the 'quick European business jaunt on planes' (not surprising, really, considering I had never done it before), but I feel after this very educational two days, I will be better prepared for the next times that I will have to jump across the water for various events.
Anyway, I headed to my hostel and got gratefully into my bed, only to spend most of the night staring at the roof, unable to sleep. I'm not even certain why, as my roommates were probably the best behaved roommates I have ever had in a hostel anywhere in the world. In fact, I was the irritating one coming in late to the room, switching on lights, using torches, attempting to move about quietly, but then stubbing my toe on various furnitures and cursing loudly.
The next morning was beautifully sunny and warm in London, so I dressed appropriately spring-like and optimistically and headed to Cambridge. Of course, this was a mistake, but I'm sure you don't need to be told this anymore, and that you can imagine what happened, after all the times I have detailed in this blog days that I have been tricked by blue skies to venture out into the outside world without an umbrella/jumper/gumboots/ski-jacket and then had to deal with the consequences. I spent a lot of the day wondering if my fingers were still attached to my hands, or if I had accidently left them clutching my hot tea cup in the last cafe I was in.
In Cambridge, I met with my wonderful cousin, Kathryn, and met her new boyfriend. Well, he isn't actually new, but I haven't met him before, so he felt brand shiny new to me. He was very nice, and we had a lovely conversation, before he had to head off to finish some university work. Kathryn and I spent the rest of the day walking around Cambridge and catching up on a year's worth of news. Kathryn is almost as good at segues as I am (or perhaps, I'm almost as good as she is), so we had many interesting conversations, that ranged from the intersecting problems of careers in academia and the arts, the various wives of Henry VIII and their fates, patterened stockings, hair colours (and hair dyes), our respective families, activism, feminsim, other -isms, floods in Australia and drought (ha!) in the UK, houses and housemates, and other things I can't remember anymore. There were many times we stopped mid-sentence in one conversation and said, 'Oh, but, wait, what was I saying before? We were talking about something else and it was very interesting....' In short, it was an absolute delight to see her again, and we probably managed to squeeze a week's worth of normal people's conversations into the day and a half we spent together in Cambridge and London.
When it started to rain, we took shelter in the Fitzwilliam Museum, and I think that from now on, I will only ever go to museums with Kathryn, because its so much more fun. Kathryn is finely attuned to the inherent absurdity of these old, pompous museums, whilst simultaneously being able to appreciate the beautiful things that are on offer. One minute you'll be laughing at a 'guglet' (just a fancy name for a bottle, really), and the next you'll be oohing and aahing over an embroidered medieval portrait that uses real human hair, tiny pearls, metal string and seeds. Favourite moments included the gigantic owl (with removable head! All other owls are now inferior, as they do not also have removable heads) and finding a sign in a small cabinet saying, 'Unless otherwise stated, all objects in this cabinet are Japanese.' There were only 3 things in the cabinet, and they were all labelled 'Japanese'. Oh, those hilariously bureaucratic Brits and their overly-enthusiastic labeling.
At 5pm, Kathryn handed responsibility for me over to our mutual friend, Michelle, who I had previously spent a lovely evening with in Cambridge last November, as Kathryn had a mother's day dinner to get to with her boyfriend's family. Michelle and I caught up on 5 months of activities over a few drinks, which turned into a few more, which turned into Jenny missing the last train back to London. I would have been more annoyed if I hadn't been so full of subsidised college port and Bulmers cider. Michelle got out her blow-up mattress, and I put the alarm clock on for the ungodly hour of 6:30am, as I had to go back into London to check out of my (now completely useless) hostel room before 10am. Unfortunately, the air bed must have had a hole in it, as I kept having to blow more air into it during the night, resulting in my second night of very little sleep. Things could have been worse though, I could have had no friend in Cambridge and had to sleep at the train station, so I was very grateful for the bed. I was also grateful for the vegemite toast I was able to eat the next morning, something I haven't tasted for over a year.
Monday morning was madness, as I had never been on the tube at peak hour before. It was more than a little terrifying and claustrophobic. I didn't like it one little bit, I have to say. It was the second time that weekend that I had been a little bit overwhelmed by such a crush of people. There was a part of my brain that switched into panic mode. It wasn't at all rational, it was just an instinctive reaction: 'Get away, get away now before something bad happens. Before you're taken somewhere you don't want to go, before you're pushed into the street in front an oncoming car, before you're trampled to death in the push for the subway.' Melodramatic? Perhaps. Or, maybe I should just make sure I don't get a job in London that will require me to work at the normal hours of everybody else so that I can avoid the crush.
London was delightfully sunny again, so I sat in Kensington Gardens in the sun and read my 'Vanity Fair' and waited for Kathryn to arrive. About halfway through the magazine I had a sudden thought, which was, 'Goodness me, I'm just sitting in Kensington Gardens, reading a magazine as if it is the most normal thing in the entire world. This would blow my 15 year-old self's mind'. A moment where I realised just how lucky I was, if you will, and that I was very pleased to have gone off and tried to do the things I've always wanted to do. It was strange not to feel excited about being in London, strange to feel happy about being there but still, feeling like, 'Well, yes, this is just where I am now. No biggie.'
Kathryn and I continued our tour of weird and wonderful museums, this time going to the Natural History Museum, which I had always avoided on previous visits to London, but, of course, Kathryn made it fun. We interacted most enthusiastically with the interactive exhibits and most likely annoyed all the serious elderly people, but we felt we entertained at least a few of the hip, young attractive people around the place, who kept giving us half-smiles as they went past. I don't know why I didn't know that the hip, young attractive people hung out at the Natural History Museum, but now that I know this, I will be coming back often.

From: http://www.tourist-information-uk.com/natural-history-museum.htm

We said good-bye on the tube, hoping to see each other again before Kathryn goes home in May (so, there's a good chance we will), and I headed to New Zealand House in Westminster, for the first meeting of '50 Ft Women', the mentoring project I'm part of. I was more than a little terrified, but it ended up being a lot of fun, and, of course, everyone was very interesting and easy to talk to, and friendly and impressive and wonderful. We met most of the mentors through a 'speed mentoring' system, which was more than a little fun, but it did exhaust me and my voice. The nice thing was that I felt able to talk intelligently about my skills and talents to these women, and that they responded well to those things. I'm very bad at presenting myself in a good light and holding up my achievements as worthwhile to new people (I have a tendency to downplay everything I've done and take the piss out of myself... I'm sure none of you have noticed that), so it was good practice. A lot of the women were involved in social justice projects, or research, which I think will be interesting to be around, as I would like to consider how to combine some of my interests in the arts with politics and 'doing good in the world'. I obviously know very little about this sort of thing at the moment (well, not very little, but, relatively little, especially compared to the other women there), but, the point of the program is to make connections, share knowledge and experience, so hopefully I will learn. I need to think a little harder about what I want out of my mentoring program before I meet my mentor (I don't know who it will be yet), but I already feel very inspired, motivated and optimistic. I'm looking forward to moving to London all the more.
After the event I was quite wired, and whilst I had meant to go to Stansted Airport straight away (I was sleeping there that night), I didn't feel like going just then. Instead, I paid a large amount of money for some lollies, and even more money for a movie ticket and went and saw, 'This Means War' at Leicester Square. It was surprisingly diverting and amusing, at least until Reese Witherspoon had to choose between the two highly attractive spy-men, and then I just got bored. Personally, I think she should have kept seeing them both. It only seemed right.
I then headed to Stansted Airport and managed to get a reasonable sleeping position, meaning I didn't get a spot lying stretched out on the chairs, but I was against a wall, so I didn't have to sleep with my head flung back, and mouth hanging unattractively open, but could curl up over my bag and against the wall. There was a very strange looking woman who seemed to stare at me all night long, but that might have been because when I first got there I stripped off all my warm clothing, falling asleep just in my skirt and singlet top, and then every 30 minutes, I'd wake up and put on another piece of clothing until I had taken everything out of my bag and put it on my person. If I was the lady, I probably would have stared at me too. I managed a bit of sleep, but not nearly enough, and decided that I would replace sleep with food, and when that didn't work, I decided to replace sleep with tea, which only left me feeling nauseous and jittery at work. But, really, who cares? I love my job, I was in London for the weekend, I met my cousin and my friend and a variety of inspiring women who are willing to give me life and career advice. So, what's a few hours less sleep?

From http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-photo/maryfayce/3/1254956855/token-sleeping-person-picture.jpg/tpod.html

Rule Britannia!

I realise the irony of the post title considering I am living in Ireland. Well, maybe not irony, unless we're talking about the definition of irony when used in an Alanis Morrisette song, but... something. Insensitivity? Crassness? The point is, I'm living in Ireland, this blog is meant to be about the great time I'm having whilst in Ireland, and I've headed this blog post with a title that celebrates the colonial power across the water. And not just any colonial power, the colonial power that did some seriously shitty stuff to Ireland over the years, including, oh, not helping out during the potato famine, taking away the native language, burning down all their churches, sending much of their population to Australia as convicts, and just basically not letting the Irish people rule their own country for several hundred years.
But, the unfortunate fact of the matter is, I went to London on the weekend and it was pretty freakin' fabulous. And if that makes me a totally worthless, ignorant, pro-colonialist, pro-military, royalist, conservative, right-wing, panderer to the established classes, well, then, so be it.
Rule Britannia!
I have been looking forward to this trip for a long time. Ever since I booked it in fact (bada - BOOM). But more so since about late September, when I began to think I didn't want to be an au pair anymore (and even more so since October when I finally admitted I didn't want to be an au pair anymore.... Au Pairs Anonymous: 'Hi, I'm Jenny, and I... don't want to be an Au Pair anymore. Its been about 6 weeks now since I last found something a kid did 'cute'.....'). So, its been a while. Of course, a watched pot never boils, and a watched calendar never... turns its pages, or something, but every few days I would take down the calendar, or type '2011 calendar' into google and then count the days and weeks left until my long weekend in the UK.
I left on Friday night, straight after work. My host dad rushed me to the bus, which was very lovely of him, considering there was absolutely no rush, I had plenty of buses to catch, plenty of time to catch my plane, but it did mean a glorious few hours sitting around the airport, drinking a glass of wine, eating dinner in peace, reading my books and/or newspapers and just generally being a grown-up adult type person (who has no children).
We flew into Heathrow, which I prefer to the other airports, not only because its closer to the city, but because it doesn't have the 'cut-price airline' tag that is attached (in my mind) to Gatwick and Stansted. That's right. I'm an airport snob. I bet you didn't think it was possible to be an airport snob. But, that's just another benefit of reading this blog - to find out that its possible to be snooty about things like which London airport you fly into. I want to make a joke about first world problems here, but I am also aware that the first world problem of cheap air travel is something that genuinely worries and upsets me in a broader sense (in terms of the damage its doing to the environment), whilst still not wanting to change my own current habits and opportunities (did I tell you all I'm going to Amsterdam in December???) so its something I'd prefer not to be flippant about. Should I make a flippant joke about first world problems, or should I not make a flippant joke about first world problems? Ahhh... #firstworldproblems.
Anywho, I flew into Heathrow and took the express train into Paddington station, where a friend was meeting me. I was being put up in a creative Antipodean flat in East London (apparently there are more artists in London per head of population than anywhere else in the world - fun fact!), to be specific, in London Fields, just near where a lot of the riots happened in July. That didn't really weird me out. What DID weird me out was when I got to the apartment and they had been having interviews for a new housemate, and they were talking about one of the people they had interviewed, and I thought, 'Hmm... he sounds familiar,' and I asked what he looked like and it turns out they had interviewed my buddy from Actors Centre. It then turned out that one of the girls knew many other folk from the Actors Centre, at which point I had a great desire to talk about 6 degrees of separation, Kevin Bacon and sing, 'Its a Small World After All.' All of which I resisted, as I was in an uber-trendy East London flat with creative Antipodeans and I didn't want them to think ill of me.
The next morning, I got up early and headed to King's Cross station, as I was off to Cambridge to do an improvisational storytelling workshop with Shon Dale-Jones from Hoipolloi (oh, why, yes, I do sound like a wanker). Beforehand, however, I met up with a friend from high school, who had very kindly invited me out for breakfast before my workshop, to swap stories on the past 10 years, particularly as they related to men. Not that we women only talk about men, of course, before all you men out there start getting big heads/start getting paranoid, but there were some strange coincidences cropping up in Michelle's 'men stories' and my own 'men stories' (not of the 6 degree of separation variety - thanks be to God), and we needed to compare notes. Breakfast turned out to be not even close to long enough (though it was deliciously French), but, luckily, we had arranged to meet for a cheeky drink afterwards before I headed back to London, so there was still time.
The workshop itself was wonderful fun, with some lovely people, and I ended the day feeling I had learnt something. The problem, I find, though, with going to workshops with people I admire is that I'm always kind of hoping that at the end of the workshop, they'll turn around to me and say, 'You! You are wonderful! Talented! Amazing! You must be in my next play/film/book/radio piece etc! You must especially be in the etc!' And I will modestly agree. When it doesn't happen, I always end the workshop feeling slightly depressed, even if the workshop itself was great fun and a big success. So, I know to check myself early these days, and stop attempting to get the workshop leader's attention/approval/praise/love/adoration at the beginning of the day, and at the end of the day, I tell myself to stop being silly and to just leave and to stop hanging around the door in case the workshop leader was just waiting for everyone else to go before telling me that he wants to cast me in his next play. Having a friend to meet and drinks to consume straight afterwards certainly helped.
I missed (deliberately) the train I had been intending to get back to London, and then missed a few more, as Michelle and I were having such fun in the lovely Cambridge pub with lovely fairy lights and creeping vines and attractive young intellectual folk. She told me I was welcome to stay on her blow-up bed (which you can inflate with a hair-dryer! Though, once the air gets cold, it will deflate a little. Gosh, the things they teach you at Cambridge!), but the lure of the city was too great, and I jumped back on a train to East London, where a creative, Antipodean house party was in full swing. My ACA buddy was there, and it was kind of delicious to be surrounded by Australian accents for a night. A little too deliciously comforting for a person who considers herself to be a committed and experienced traveler and searcher-outer of different cultures, lifestyles and people, but I gave in and had a fabulous time. I even went for a peaceful walk through Peacer's Park at 3am and saw three foxes and kicked up the gigantic fallen autumn leaves.
Except, that, of course I didn't go for a walk at 3am around the area in London where the riots were, Dad. And, if I did, I wore a bullet-proof vest and went with a large group of very trustworthy, burly men, all of them highly- trained in the various martial arts.
Ahem.
Sunday was blissed out and peaceful, starting with a great, big, long sleep, and when I finally got up, it turned out to be a beautiful, sunny day in London. I headed straight out to the park again, but it being too small for my purposes, I started to wander further afield. I found a canal and followed it for about an hour and a half, listening to 'The Clash', going past lovely riverboat houses, parks, apartment blocks overlooking the water, and generally being happy and whimsical and excitable. The one thing I will say about London that is a bit sad, is that nobody smiles at you in the street. Even if you smile at them! Even if its clear you are having the best day of your life and absolutely everyone else should be included in your joy! No! They look at you as if you possibly have escaped from a nearby mental institution, or that you're about to attempt to sell them a series of books about Ancient civilizations, or that you've just found Jesus or something. They scowl, or they look away quickly, or they look confused, as if they feel they should know who you are but they can't remember. Its a shame. You can smile at everyone in rural Ireland when you walk down the street, because even if you don't know them, there's still a sense that you share something. Somehow, in some bizarre twist of fate, out of all the people and the places in the world, the both of you have found yourselves walking towards each other at the same time, in a tiny little Irish village on the Celtic Sea, and that deserves to be celebrated with a smile. In London its like, 'Oh, you're here too? Yeah, so's 10 million other people. Get out of my way.' Ah well. I continued to smile at every passing stranger in the hope that I might brighten their day a little. At least they'd have something to talk to their kids about later that night. 'You know, in the street today, a girl smiled at me.' 'No? Really? Did you know her?' 'No! That was the weirdest part! I'd never seen her before in my life! At least, I don't think I had... '
Sunday night, I managed to catch up with an au pair friend of mine (we met in Bandon, but she's now working in London) at my favourite frozen yoghurt place in Leicester Square - 'Snog'. I've had more 'snogs' in winter than in summer, and this should prove to you how good they are. Even if you're lips are turning blue, if you're in London, you have a snog (ha!). I then headed to Brick Lane to meet another friend, but I was pretty wrecked by that point, due to my traverses across the city, and she was pretty wrecked due to housemate interviews all day, so we kind of slumped in chairs and drank water and talked instead of going out or doing anything more complicated.
The next day I saw my brother!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Which, the amount of exclamation marks should tell you, is a very, very good thing.
I haven't seen my darling brother Chris since I left in January, and I was exceedingly excited about seeing him again, IN LONDON on the weekend. There was a slight problem, however, in that in my walk and snog induced haze the night before, I had left my mobile at my friend's house in Brick Lane, and meeting up with someone in a city you don't really know suddenly becomes that much more difficult without a mobile. Having a mobile phone around has clearly made me lazy and ruined my survival skills, as I forgot that if I wrote down my brother's mobile from his Facebook message before I left the house, it would be relatively easy to call him from a pay phone at Victoria station and work out where he was. But, I went forth to Victoria station thinking there was NO WAY IN THE WORLD TO NOW KNOW MY BROTHER'S NUMBER, as I no longer had my portable phone and address book. I thought, 'Well, it was easy to find my friend at Paddington, hopefully Victoria is similarly easy. I'll just wait near the bus stop from Oxford.' No. No, no, no, no, no.
Anyone who has lived in London, or even, possibly, just visited London, will be shaking their head in frustration at this point. Victoria comprises of the Underground, the train station and the bus station. In a place like Sydney, that might be doable, if you don't know where you're meeting someone, you can kind of find a central place, vaguely related to the place the person you are meeting is coming from and hang there until they arrive. At Victoria, the underground is separated from the bus station by a walk of some 15 minutes. On top of which, the departures of the bus station are separate from the arrivals. My only hope was that my brother would get to Victoria and NOT MOVE until I finally found where he had arrived. Of course, this did not happen, and eventually, I had to find an internet cafe, get his number, ring him on a pay phone (with my credit card - I mean, who carries around spare change these days??) and then head back to near the underground. The important thing is that we got there in the end, and it was absolutely delightful to see my brother, who is fit, exceedingly happy and totally absorbed with his new life at Oxford (and no, I'm not at all jealous. NOT AT ALL).
We had a lovely catch-up in a cafe with the slowest service in all of London, possibly the UK. Luckily, this suited our purposes, as we had 10 months of activities to catch-up on. We then headed back to Brick Lane on a search and rescue mission for my mobile phone, and spent the rest of the day around East London/Shoreditch/Hackney, where my brother had never been (thus suggesting, for only the first time in our lives, that perhaps I was cooler than him), I bought a beautiful, bright red flapper-style hat with what appears to be a Christmas flower attached to the side from the 'Hat Man' at the Spittlefield Markets and felt exceedingly happy, so happy that I refused to take the hat off whilst we went for a drink in a pub, probably breaking all sorts of proprietary and etiquette rules, meaning I won't be allowed into the UK next time I try to go there for a holiday.
Unfortunately, though I was having an absolute ball, feeling like a million pounds (of money, not weight - that would be a whole other feeling), this was my last afternoon in London. The later in the afternoon it got, the less light, the more desperate my thoughts became. 'Just call them, and say you're not coming back to Ireland! You've got all the important stuff with you, who cares about all the stuff you've left there!' Or, 'Don't call them! Just stay in London and switch off your mobile phone and no-one will ever need know!' Or, 'Don't call them, go back to Ireland, but just don't go home!' Or, 'Just, please, miss your plane or something? At least, just miss your plane? And go back tomorrow? Please? Please?' The thoughts were getting more and more pleading as I got off the Heathrow Express, walked through Terminal 1 and headed to the check-in counter. The thoughts got very angry at the Aer Lingus sign, even angrier at the sound of Irish accents. They were furious by the time I was heading towards security, and even when I had gotten to my gate, they made me sit there, staring at the gateway to my plane until the very last minute, til the 'All passengers to Cork, this is your final boarding call...' They made me sit there, staring angrily at the Irish stewardesses in their emerald green uniforms because the voices couldn't quite believe I would go through with it. 'You can't be serious!' screamed the voices. 'You can't seriously be going back there? You are absolutely insane! I have no respect left for you!' The voices kind of felt that if they started abusing me, they might get a better response. But, to no avail. I boarded the plane, and actually shed a few desperate tears as we flew off from Heathrow and I watched the lights of London disappear below me.
The week since London, it is fair to say, has been going slower than all the weeks leading up to London combined. I'm continually doing calculations in my head. How many days until Christmas? How many days minus the weekends? How many hours? No, that can't be right, try again. Count with the calendar. No, it has to be sooner than that. Little Man, when he's been grumpy with me has been telling me to 'Go back to London', which I feel is just rubbing salt in the wound (he also asked me, 'When do you leave?' I said, 'Christmas.' He said, 'No, go now!' I snapped, 'Little Man, if I could go now, I would. Believe me, I would march out the door, right now.' I'm hoping he thought it was a joke and won't be scarred for life by my grumpy mood).
So, anyway, next year's destination is now, most definitely, London. I had a brief fling with Edinburgh, but I can't deny the long-standing passionate and heartfelt love I have held for London, a love that has stretched from my childhood days, watching 'Yes, Minister' with my parents and admiring the grand watercolour drawings of Big Ben, Westminster and the Thames. I feel a little grumpy that I've decided to go now, I have to say. So many brilliant years behind London and the UK, and so many hard, hard, miserable ones ahead. Why did I put it off until now? Sometimes when I get really low about it all, I figure maybe I'll be able to make great art out of it (always my consolation when bad things happen) and I'll be like that filmmaker who made 'This is England', who only ever makes films about Thatcherite England, and that living through the collapse of the Euro whilst in Europe will somehow be the making of me.
Nonetheless, for whatever the reason, whether its my bad luck, bad timing, my stupidity, my fate, something to do with the Olympics, my Saturn's Return, or because it'll be the making of me, 2012 is the year for London and the UK and I'll just have to make the most of whatever happens when I get there.
I can't wait to get there.