The Night Before (Christmas: Part One)

Wednesday December 24/2014

Eggnog is not commonly found in the UK. Christmas is all around us, but eggnog is not. And it's stupid. You might say, "Well, Chelsea. Why wouldn't you just make some yourself from scratch?" To that I would have to reply, "Hello, my name is Chelsea. We quite clearly have never met, otherwise you would know that I much prefer complaining about a situation than actually resolving it. That, and I cannot be trusted over a stove-- if that is in fact how you make eggnog (refer to the egg soup fiasco in previous post). So therefore, in order to sustain my yearly tradition, and feel the warmth of christmas in my belly-- and inevitably on my hips and ass (it's literally liquid fat laced with nutmeg), I have been forced to break my oath, and succumb to the treachery that is Starbucks. Apart from feeling like a shameful, shell of a man, I actually became rather infuriated when having to place my reluctant Eggnog Latte order. I'm sorry, but aren't world dominating chains such as this supposed to keep some form of consistency throughout their over abundance of global locations? For instance, when I use the word non-fat with regards to which kind of milk I prefer, should I not get an understanding nod as apposed to the blank look of complete lack of understanding I was given? And when I ask for a Dirty Chai, should I really have to explain myself? Really? (Ok, maybe I've broken my oath once before this.) But believe you me, my pledge to never return to Starshits was solidified once again after discovering that a Toffee Nut Latte is considered a Christmas beverage. No. 

Ok, fine. I still continued to have 'nogs at Shitbucks once a week for the entire month of December. Ok, twice a week. Ok! A lot a week. Jesus! I love eggnog. And I struggle with the concept of loyalty.

I'm getting ahead of myself, and have vastly digressed from my attempt to introduce the subject of Christmas. But first, I should really go back a month and a half, before the take over of mince pies, flickering lights, and the endless replay of Fairytale Of New York ringing in my ears. 

I would like to begin with the ever anticipated visit from my ultimate Irish love (Sorry Chris) and member of my suto Irish family, Angela Mulroony. Unfortunately, I remember very little of it. Which I do believe I can therefore say, with confidence, that it must have been brilliant. I remember starting at the Alex, and I remember going to sleep far after the sun had risen. Somewhere in between there was tequila. And many mojitos. It was nice to see that nothing had changed, despite our distances. 

The following weekend was reserved for my second round of "meet the parents": Chris's Mammy. It was the last day in November, and it was as if the month had decided to be nice enough to produce one final flawlessly gorgeous autumn (hey, look I'm getting the hang of it) day before giving way to winter. The perfect day for a Sunday drive through the English countryside! Irish, and myself, with Brother Irish at the wheel, made our way through hill after rolling hill, towards a destination that for the life of me I could not name. It didn't matter. I was happy just to be lounging in the back seat of a car, munching on Jelly Babies, surrounded by passing fields of sheep. So many adorable, grazing, fluffy sheep, glowing in the autumn sunlight. 

The first town we drove through was adorable. It was all adorable. The churches, the town centres, the tiny streets, lined with old, crowded buildings. Adorable. When we arrived at what I now know is a town called Devizes, in South West England (I'm fairly sure this is accurate) I was eager to meet the mother. How could I not be with a woman who raised the infamous Christopher Whelan and lived to tell the tale? We were greeted by Chris's sister, Ali, and her boyfriend, Justin, and wee little baby Amelia rocking contently in the corner of the living room. Introductions were made, Bonny hugged me, then held me at arms length, to "get a good look at me". I followed her into the kitchen and offered to help with dinner, praying to God she wouldn't accept; burning your boyfriend's mother's house down doesn't exactly make for the best first impression. Instead she handed me a glass of champagne (I like her already) and asked all about me. Chris came into the room just long enough for her to take the piss out of him, quickly advancing my like to love. So that's how she did it. We spent the early evening eating and drinking and chatting and drinking some more. I don't think I've ever felt so naturally comfortable-- the bottomless wine glass probably didn't hurt. By the time we said our goodbyes, I was already planning my return, with our without Irish. 

With a full belly, and a mild red wine sedation, it didn't take long for me to fall asleep as we made our way back to the city. At one point, I woke up-- mainly because Gavin purposely turned the backseat light on to get a rise out of me-- and felt incredibly happy (well, I did after I had a minor fit for being so rudely awoken). I not only had myself an Irishman with amazing parents, but two Irishmen who let me tag along on family road trips, and bug the shit out of me, which is clearly a sign of affection and great admiration. 

December arrived and with it the Chelsea Beamish tradition to IMMEDIATELY adopt the perfect Christmas tree. Chris met me after work at a swanky little nursery around the corner from the Unnamed Bar that was home to the biggest variety of small to medium sized trees I had ever seen. You have your very short, your short, eye level, just above eye level, and then "tall" which was really just slightly above above eye level. In that moment I missed Kelowna. I missed giant, fatty trees that you wondered, as you unsafely strapped it to the hood of your car, if it would in fact fit through the front door. I missed home even more when I was told the price of my chosen "just above eye level" shrub. Funny thing that whole, never having to pay for a Christmas Tree. What a hoot when you finally get to. Except that I'm poor, and therefore refused to settle for such a cost. So we left "just above eye level" and carried on down the high street in search of my pine adorned (affordable) soul mate. Three stops later, we came to Clapham's friendly neighbourhood flowerman, who gave us a hefty deal on the most perfect "just above boob level" Christmas tree I had ever seen. The next night Gavin came home with Christmas lights and we all shared dinner and decorated the tree. Well Chris and I decorate the tree. Ok I decorated the tree, Chris strung the hooks through the balls, and Gavin came in to top the tree with a red, shiny star. God Bless us, everyone!

The next week, I decided to spend my mid-Christmas-countdown day off by visiting the Queen. Not a standard tradition, to my knowledge, but it occurred to me recently, that in the almost year that I have been residing in this fine city, I have barely done a single tacky tourist thing (which, I might add, perhaps isn't the worst thing). So off to Buckingham Palace I went! There's something about taking the bus that is just so satisfying-- when you're not in a rush to get anywhere and just happy to sit back and actually get to see where you're going. In london, you spend so much of your time underground, I swear, if the situation presented itself, I could probably burrow my own tunnels under this city, what with my newly acquired night vision and vermin like abilities. Also, for a girl who is as directionally challenged as myself (concernedly so), traveling the city via underground makes it impossible to ever know where you are actually going. Who knew I would pass through Chelsea in order to get to the Queen? So Chelsea is finally in Chelsea. And the world did not spontaneously combust. Although, it should have. For once again, I have been put in place so beautiful, so elegant, and so completely out of my price range. I don't deserve this. 

Sloane Street. Every fashionista's heaven. And my bus just had to drive through it. Louis Vuitton, Dolce and Gabbana, Dolce and Gabbanna Kids (come on! For fuck), Jimmy Choo, Prada, Fendi, Chanel, Dior, Armani, Hermes, Gucci, Versace, Yves St Laurent… Sorry, I stopped breathing. At this point, I had forgotten all about the Queen. Fuck the Queen. Hello Valentino. But my bus just kept going, leaving behind what I truly believe to be the lifestyle that belongs to me, and will one day be mine. Why not throw salt on the wound by visiting a fucking castle that I don't even live in? Marvellous. 

In fairness, it was nothing special. The statues gifted from New Zealand standing across from the Palace were more interesting, mainly because one of them was a particularly masculine female, standing next to lion, holding a machete. I'm pretty sure she was holding a machete. The Palace itself was just a massive span of building. Rather boring. I had missed the changing of the guard by an hour, which was lame, but I did get to watch a few of them mosey back and forth from their little huts for as long as my attention span could handle. What a mind numbingly terrible career. Stand and march. March and stand. Adjust rifle position. Wear ridiculous hats that probably weigh a great deal, and may even lead to eventual height deficiency. They weren't even in their traditional red guard outfit. I presume it's because of the season. A mild blue is much more fitting for the winter months. Regardless of the lacklustre scene, I took a selfie to boast about on Facebook and Instagram, and decided my time would be much better spent surrounded by proper royalty: Sir Jimmy Choo. Walking Sloane Street is just so much more depressing than watching it pass you by on a double decker. An entire street length of the most incredible designer wear, my face welling with tears as I smooshed it against window after window, drooling over every inch of hem, and pleat, and pattern, and… heel. When I saw Jimmy Choo from across the street, it couldn't be helped. It was pulling me in. I couldn't resist (so much so that I nearly got run down by a black cab). The door man welcomed me and I vomited a little. Jaysus, Mary, and a whole lot of Joseph. I imagine this is actually what euphoria feels like. I am euphoric. Or on the verge. Euphoric would be leaving this store with several bags. I will be leaving this store mourning my very working class existence. I stood in awe at each pair, ignoring the fact that I was the epitome of "What doesn't belong here". I saw the salespeople. I knew what they were thinking. I knew they knew I was wearing Primark. And they knew I knew they knew I was wearing Primark. It was time to leave. One day, my loves. One day. I slouched, heavy in my eighteen pound Timberland knock offs (that's embarrassing), and headed towards the big red bus that would take me back to where I belonged. For now anyway. 

It was only days before Irish was to take the dreaded fairy back to his mother land for Christmas, and we had still not been to Winter Wonderland. This was unacceptable. Every year, Hyde Park puts on this extravagant winter fair, filled with Christmas magic, and copious amounts of mulled wine. Actually, upon arrival, it really just seems to be some kind of giant Austrian, or Danish or whatever, fair that has managed to cover the odd clown in a Santa costume, and hang holly from various roller coasters and, yes, haunted houses, and call it a Winter Wonderland. Still pretty impressive though. Endless rows of wooden huts filled with crafts, and food, and mulled wine lined the entire grounds. An entire kingdom made of ice stood in the centre of the park, which we couldn't be arsed to pay twenty quid to see inside, but I imagine it's quite lovely. We strolled around, sipping on wine and steins, munching on marzipan and chimney cake, listening to an Irish band cover Cotton Eye Joe in the Bavaria Gardens (???) and just taking it all in. It was cute. We were cute. Chris experienced his first Bratwurst (this is a literal cherry popping, not a figurative one. Just to clarify). But the wanker refused sauerkraut and onions, so we can hardly call that a true experience. Amateur. Pfft. 

** It must be mentioned: the day prior to our Wonderland festivities, I discovered, in the worst possible way, that I am, unexpectedly, allergic to Aspirin. This came to my attention after a head ache at work had me popping Aspirin laced extra strength Paracetamol, causing my already generous sized head to swell double its size; most specifically my eyes and cheeks. Any photographs seen from this day, or the day following should be accompanied with a parental advisory. 

Two days before the Irishman abandoned me during the holidays (this is a farce-- I am taking the piss-- I was invited, repeatedly, to join the Whelan's for a very merry Kilmore Christmas, but instead opted to be sister of the year and stay in the city with my brother), we braved one more Christmas market in South Bank. This one was cute, as well, mostly because it was set up along the Thames, and had even more food than Wonderland. But the only thing about it worth mentioning was my Duck Confit Burger with blue cheese on a sweet, brioche bun. Street food just escalated to a whole other level. 

The next day I came home to the most delicious faux Christmas chicken dinner, a bouquet of festive flowers, and a Lindor chocolate ball the size of my head. There's a chance I might miss this spud head. The day he left, we exchanged the presents we weren't going to get each other: me, an impressively well picked out hat that makes me look like a hot Indiana Jones. And him, 'Irish Moss' scented beard oil. I know. Incredible. 

To be honest, there was a part of me that was looking forward to having some time in the flat to myself. I am known to be that of a lone wolf by nature, so a week completely alone (minus my beloved stuffed sheep, Baaa Jangles and C-lamb-ato to keep me snuggled at night) sounded just swell. With this thought in mind, it came as quite a surprise when the Irishman's departure played out like that of a man leaving for war; his woman crying out in despair, convinced he would never return. Even after their goodbyes, she can't help but run to him as he makes his way down the dirt road towards his looming expiry for one final embrace-- except I was running to the elevator of our 2nd floor, and he was making his way to Paddington station, set to return seven days later. It was emotional.

And now, here I sit. Christmas Eve in London. Perched in front of Mr. Bean's Christmas Special, with a doner kebab and portion of chips (I presume this to be a holiday tradition somewhere). And I feel ok. At least I do now. If Josh doesn't call me to come over and drink wine soon, I'll probably break out into my World War generated tears again. 

Cry Baby Cry

Tuesday December 2/2014

I'm fairly certain that I'm dying of a rapidly growing tumour that is lodged in my esophagus. It may not be the esophagus, but that's the only anatomical part of my throat that comes to mind. Either that or I regretfully agreed to a job teaching dance at a primary school in East London-- sixty snotty nosed, disease ridden, contagious little midget devils (ie: five year olds), infesting me with their germs on a weekly basis. Basically I've been sick for 2 months. 

Primary schools (elementary schools, for those Canadian readers) in London are… interesting. Or perhaps I've been away from them for so long that now they just seem like strange, heavily secured prisons smelling of hospital and used, damp socks, filled will teeny tiny furniture, and ridiculously small toilets for the vertically challenged. I received this glamourous job through a sports activities company that contracts 'coaches' such as myself to lead various grades of midget devils in physical education instead of their regular teachers, thus allowing them a break to enjoy a cuppa, prepare class plans, regain their sanity, throw back a shot or two of vodka, whatever suits their needs at the time. Although after only two months of enduring a mere one day a week with these little angels, I'd most certainly be carrying a flask if I were them. Technically speaking, I am a dance instructor, but if we're being honest, I am simply a glorified babysitter. What never seizes to amaze me, however, is the extent of my 'babysitting' requirements. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, or lived a very sheltered life, within the walls of a very conservative Elementary School, but in my day, in my country, even at the wee age of five, we had such things as change rooms. Boys and girls had separate changing facilities used to transition from school clothes to P.E. kit and back again, modestly. Imagine my surprise when on my first day at Mission Grove Primary School, I walked into a classroom filled with half naked children running around and attacking each other with the trousers they weren't wearing. And so reveals 'dance teacher' responsibility number one: assist children in and out of their P.E. kits. Yes. Part of my ever so glamourous, high status, overseas teaching career involves monitoring naked, English midget devils. What's worse is my inability to adapt to the British definition of pants. Every time I'd tell a child to take their pants off, I'd get this look of shock, followed by fear and slight disgust, followed further by hesitant obedience as they begin to pull on their underwear. No!!! Trousers! I mean trousers! I can hear the whispers now, There goes that perverted Canadian. Calls herself a 'Dance Teacher'.   

The second establishment that employs my teaching skills is far from naked babysitting. Far from everything, really. Enfield. A town outside of London. Outside London. If the town wasn't so utterly adorable and the work wasn't good old fashioned, disciplinary RAD, I'd sooner stand on the tracks and gladly let the National Rail run me down than have to ride it twice a week. But Enfield is cute. So cute in fact, that I choose to arrive at the farthest station from the studio so that I can wander down the high street each day. Down a road called Church Street, which is exactly how it sounds. Churches everywhere. Churches hosting antique fairs, and serving free morning coffee. Markets on every corner. Fruit markets, tupperwear markets, hideous old woman clothes, next to last season's more than likely stolen designer makeup and perfume markets. Like I said, adorable. 

The studio I work for is a performing arts school, nestled above a music cafe that plays live music and sells guitars and keyboards along with your flat white. Unbeknownst to me upon accepting the position, it is a Turkish school. Run by Turks for Turks, all speaking Turkish. Then there's me. You try pronouncing four classes worth of turkish names and see how you feel by the end. Or have a class full of three year olds who don't speak a word of English. You're almost wishing for the naked midget devils, let me tell you. But not. Because the little Turks are almost as cute as the streets I walk through to get to them, and their mothers are so perfectly beautiful that I often find myself hypnotized by their shiny black hair, wanting to be them. These women, my God. Flawlessly dressed in the most jealousy-inducing outfits. Drenched in designer everything and looking as though they've just stepped off set of a fashion editorial. Except they've just stepped out of their Range Rovers, and are eight months pregnant, but you wouldn't notice unless they turned sideways. Perfect Bitches. I love them. 

I always look forward to Saturdays. I get to teach what I love, the way I love to. Girls actually have their hair in a bun, and are wearing bodysuits that weren't purchased at H&M. They know to start class in first position with their hands behind their backs before I so much as look towards the stereo. And at the end of class they always, ALWAYS, curtsey and chant, "Thank you, Miss Chelsea." Heaven. 

But even Enfield's most sought after dance instructor needs a little R&R from time to time, and considering the fact that the Irishman and myself had been an item for almost half a year, we figured it was a good a time as any for the Canadian to meet the family… It was time to go to Ireland. Back to Ireland. But this time, the sunny southeast. Wexford.

Funny thing about traveling to Wexford; if you decide against the efficiency of a plane ride, it actually takes longer to get there than to fly from London to Canada. Of course, I wanted to have the whole tube, train, train, boat experience, and the ability to say I'd been in three countries in one day so the twelve hours it would take didn't exactly register. Nor did the fact that we'd be travelling in the dark and therefore sight seeing would be impossible. Yes, we may have passed through Wales, but the only thing I saw was the reflection of my giant head in the train window. Three countries my ass. If it wasn't for a few cheeky cans and a bag or two of Jelly Babies, I'm not confident I would have made it. By the time we got to Fishguard where the Ferry docks, there was no question we'd be forking out the extra dough for a cabin on board. The Ferry wasn't much different than BC Ferries, to my disappointment. For some reason, I had this image of a great ship, with sails, and water splashing on the decks. The inside would be made up of old creaking wood, and the lower class would be forced to share the bottom of the boat with sheep. I may actually be a tad racist. Maybe if I drank enough at the boat's bar, it would look more liked I'd hoped. Another poor assumption. The one difference between this ferry and the only other one I'd frequented, is the feeling of actually being on a boat. Something I hadn't realized I had never experienced. On BC ferries, there will be the odd time where you feel yourself tilting slightly to the right, but perhaps not. There was no misinterpreting the boat's motions on this mother ship. Up and down, up and down, side to side. Constantly. Sea sickness. It's a real thing, and I was on the verge. Needless to say, this makes for a less than appealing drinking environment. Being that it was nearing three in the morning, retreating to our cabin was the best decision to be made thus far. Fortunately for us, skipper boy tells us there are only single bunk beds available. Aces. SHOT GUN TOP BUNK. (Apparently no one in Ireland ever wants the top bunk. Total madness. But an easy win for me.) As we made our way down the narrow corridors, it was a challenge for me not to reinact Titanic, when all the poor Irish are running down the halls of the sinking bottom floor, as the water races aggressively behind them. I could have Chris shout for help to make it authentic. Our room was hilarious. The smallest thing I'd ever seen, yet still equipped with a shower and toilet across from the tiniest set of bunk beds, and another window reminding me of my giant head. In proper Whelan fashion, Chris was out cold within seconds of hitting the pillow we were resentfully sharing, while I laid squished between a large, snoring Irishman, and the wall, cursing each wave that had me praying my jelly babies remained in my digestive tract. If it wasn't for the dire need for another's body heat, and the potential need for speedy convenience to the toilet, that top bunk would be mine. 

We arrived on Irish soil at half six, looking half dead. 

"Watch this," Chris started in, as we left the shit ship and came towards our official cross into Ireland. "We could be carrying nothing but cocaine in these bags and not a single person will stop us." Sure enough, much like when we boarded, such was the case. Customs consisted of two empty podiums. Not a single sign of security. My passport sat, burried in the bottom of my purse, and didn't move until it returned to it's home in my underwear drawer three days later. The Irish. What a trustworthy people. Or, more accurately, they just couldn't be arsed. 

Chris's sister was waiting for us. She had just had a baby, not that you could bloody tell. The girl looked incredible. I hate everyone. I will be more wide than tall if I ever get knocked up and it makes me bitter. Very bitter. Alison's baby was actually the main reason we had decided to come over. Amelia. The first grandchild to grace the family, and give my Irishman the official title of Uncle Christy. After passing out in the back seat of Ali's car, I magically awoke at the Whelan residence. The cosiest yellow house I had ever seen. Although at this point, with being awake for almost twenty-four hours, I could have easily been hallucinating it's colour. But once inside, cosy it really was. This time I was out cold the minute my head hit Chris's pillow, rejecting the thoughts of how many other random women's heads had done the same in this quaint little bachelor room. Mid day finally managed to wake me from my slumber. I sat up and in front of me, staring at my atrocious morning face, was a native man. Well, a drawing of a native man. A chief to be exact. And beside it a hyde skin drum. Being native myself (obsessively so), if I had any doubt of this man being meant for me, this display honouring my people vanished all of them. Random, yes. Weird, a tad. But the universe works in mysterious ways. After taking a moment to give thanks to my ancestors, I met Chris in the kitchen for coffee with Whelan Sr. I vaguely recalled having met him that morning but, again, that too could have been a hallucination. John Whelan. Or more appropriately, Gavin Sr. The man couldn't remind me more of Chris's brother. Down to the way he smirks when you know he wants to make fun of you but instead just laughs at you internally. Gavin does that to me a lot. John speaks the way I think Chris may have when I first met him. These days, I hardly hear Chris's accent anymore. He's just Chris. A dude that says 'lad' a lot and doesn't pronounce his TH's. But I imagine, had I not gotten used to the way he talks, he'd sound like John. Duh, Chelsea. He's his son and they're both from Wexford. Retard. I've had a lot of wine. 

Once I fumbled around with the weirdness of Irish shower gadgets, and got "meet the friends" hot, William, Chris's BFF, had arrived to accompany us on the rounds. We began with Adrian, a friend of Chris's who lives at his parents and recently had a baby.  His parents, Mary and Larry (yes) were lovely. I could have sat and chatted with Mary all day. Within minutes we were discussing mixed families over tea and biscuits, and everything was grand until she dropped the baby in my arms like it supposed to be there. I looked at it, it looked at me. I held my breath. It squirmed and made a face that made it's whole head turn beet red. I don't know babies but I'm pretty confident that's a pre-cry face. I shook it a little, cautious of the dreaded shaken baby syndrome (which I actually have no idea why or how I've heard of such a thing) and it stopped. I think that came as a shock to both of us. We just looked at each other in amazement that I was capable of not only keeping a baby alive for longer than four minutes, but also keeping it from crying. What happened next was just bizarre. It fell asleep. As I gently rocked it, it's eyes grew heavy, and as much as it tried to fight it, those tiny eyes finally closed and I found myself with a baby, fast asleep in my arms. Ok it's a girl. Her name is Erin. She's adorable. For the next forty minutes, Erin and I cuddled on the sofa. It wasn't until William piped up that I snapped out of my weird, massively out of character, baby trance. 

"I dunno Beamish, this whole baby thing looks really good on you."

We need to leave. Now. 

Our next stop was to pick up Jack, William's five year old son. The boy has a face like an angel and the mouth of a trucker. Entertaining to say the least, anyway. We were picking him up from his mother's, who also happened to have a baby. A baby with a mohawk, which momentarily and pleasantly distracted me from the fact that every house I'd entered upon arriving to Wexford came inclusive with babies. Next stop was William's house. While driving along the uncomfortably narrow and windy roads, Will and Chris tried to point out significant places and buildings but my head was too busy trying to process the vast amount of procreation that had just been thrown at me. From the front of the car I could vaguely hear Chris's voice, "Later, we'll go see my friend Rob. He just had a baby."

I think I might be sick. 

William's house was beautiful. I tried to focus on the conversation regarding the price difference of rent in Wexford compared to London. I listened to Chris talk about how disgusting it is that we pay £880 per month for a bedroom in a flat. Then I almost cried when I heard William laugh and counter with the fact that they pay €600 for an entire three bedroom house, fully furnished. I was starting to come out of my baby cloud when William's girlfriend's sister called over. With her baby. Well, the baby was walking, so like maybe it was like a year or something. 

I suddenly felt a strong urge to run very far away. I can't really explain what happened, and if you were to ask me now I'd have to say I was acting completely erratic and utterly ridiculous, but I believe I had some kind of anxiety induced melt down. It was like I was witnessing my imminent future, resolved and eagerly awaiting my arrival. So naturally, I picked a huge fight with Chris that night and swore to never have sex again. I must admit, it wasn't my finest moment, nor did it win me girlfriend of the year. But by the next day I managed to calm my tits long enough to enjoy a pleasant visit with Chris's granddad, and the most delicious family lunch at the local bar, Mary Barry's. Yes. Things like to rhyme in Kilmore. I finished lunch feeling grand, relieved that I love Chris's family, and that my head was finally cleared of the dreaded baby haze. We stayed at Mary Barry's all night long, and well into morning as friends of Chris' filtered in and out. I remember some, I probably forget a lot more. The cider didn't aid in my memory. The next morning, I woke up to a sickening amount of selfies on my phone with girls I have absolutely no recollection of meeting. Chris giggled beside me. 

"How did I manage to take such friendly photos with girls I have absolutely no idea who they are?"

"…. Well that one's my old flame." 

….

"I hate you."

Despite my momentary desire to end my life out of pure fear of reproducing, and my alleged new found kindred friendship with my boyfriend's ex, my first trip to Wexford left me excited to return. So long as I stay sober enough to be conscious of prior flames, and double up on my birth control. 

The week we got home, I received an invite to a friend's baby shower. 

No.

Penny Lane

Monday Nov 10/2014

I'm poor. The cruel reality of paying rent in the most expensive city in the world on minimum wage has cut very deep. I am broke. Skint. Zero funds. A starving artist. Who knew the phrase, living pay check to pay check could actually be a thing? I mean, I've always been 'poor'. I never swam in my own hundred dollar bills, or put down a fifty for a five dollar cup of coffee and told the barista to keep the change. But It was more like a, "No sorry, I can't afford to go to Vegas with you this weekend." Now it's like a, "No sorry, I can't go to dinner with you because I can't afford to eat this weekend" kind of thing. I actually have to check my bank account before I agree to any social invitation. It's eye opening. And to be honest, actually kind of exhilarating. I feel so… alive! So real. This is how people in their mid-twenties survive. And now I'm one of them. I've become one of those people who stand in a grocery isle for ten minutes debating over a sixty pence difference in ready meals. This one looks delicious, this one looks like shit, but it's 60p cheaper. I'm a person who buys coloured toilet paper because that too, is almost a whole pound cheaper! Last week it was 'soft neutral', which after wiping, makes your pee look a disconcerting neon yellow. This week it's pink floral. 

When I know a night out on the piss is in order, I consciously avoid food in order to get drunk faster, saving money on booze, while also saving money on food. It's basically alcoholic anorexia. And it does the trick. The biggest struggle is shopping. Now when I was a fat slag, this was not an issue. For what fat slag wants to spend money on a size 12 pair of jeans? Or even be seen in a mirror trying them on? Specifically a fat slag so vein that she used to refuse to buy anything larger than a extra-small or small. If it had an 'M' on it, it wouldn't be found in my closet. However, now that my fat is shedding, and my vanity is resurrecting, it is near impossible not to spend my rent money on a beautiful new fur collared, gold zippered, leather jacket from River Island-- mainly because I did. I did that. To make matters worse, I was recently asked to cover a lyrical class in Notting Hill. If I'm starving myself in order to afford a pint, I most certainly cannot afford Notting Hill. But oh, how I'd like to afford it. Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant influence aside, Notting Hill is my english Heaven on Earth. Every street is more adorable (and unaffordable) than the last, lined with rows of perfectly kept flats filled with perfectly matched antique furniture (I know because I'm obsessed with perving through lit windows) lived in by perfect dressed occupants. As I awed at the perfect everything, a woman passed by me in a perfectly tailored pencil skirt, cashmere sweater, nylons and a flawless pair of Louboutins. 

She was riding a bicycle. 

I looked down at myself, at what could only be perceived as a South London hobo who, before invading the perfection of the West, robbed a Lululemon outlet five years prior. I stood out like a poor thumb. 

As I took my time heading home to my dumpy Clapham shit hole of a neighbourhood-- having finished teaching and now sweaty, looking even more like a homeless athlete-- I came across the only store still open, ironically selling posh activewear. Upon entering, I was handed a glass of champagne and informed of this evenings special sale. It didn't take having to look at the price tags to know that even at sale price, I'd have to sell my body in order to afford so much as a sweat band. They didn't sell sweat bands. It's Notting Hill. No one sweats in Notting Hill. Three glasses of bubbly a very possible spot on the store's black list, I left empty handed, and pleasantly buzzed. I may not be rich enough to reside in this elegant wonderland, but that doesn't mean I can't mooch on whatever perks I can get my unmanicured, working class hands on.

Just as I was about to say goodbye to the most beautiful place on materialistic Earth, I stopped. There, in front of me, with only a thin piece of glass between us, was a vintage, 1950's classic Chanel bag. Gold chain strap, white puffed leather, mint condition. My eyes were locked. Nothing else existed but me and that precious piece of fashion royalty. That is until my gaze broke and found itself fixated on the most stunning pair of strappy, suade, 1990's Manolo Blahniks. Have I just died? Am I staring into a window leading to my very own couture Narnia? 

Basically. Retro Woman. One of a series of vintage shops ranging from antique vases to old fashioned dial-a-phones, rabbit fur shrugs and… designer footwear. The moment I stepped foot inside could have very well been the best moment of my life. Floor to ceiling, glass enclosed shelves of euphoria. Shoes. Every kind of shoe. Every shoe I'd ever dreamed about stood before me, glowing before me, as if they had been blessed by Jesus himself-- who, ironically, never even had the privilege of wearing shoes. As I marvelled from shelf to shelf, top to bottom, Vuitton to Gabbana, I actually felt light headed. It was all just too much to comprehend. I'm literally going to faint. I felt overwhelmed, short of breath. With every opened toed, patent leather, sling back, Gucci printed, Louboutin soled pair of utter perfection came an ever increasing urge to cry. To fall to my knees and weep uncontrollably. It wasn't until I came across a pair of red, patent leather Mary Jane Jimmy Choo's--SIZE 5UK-- that a single tear actually fell from my hypnotized eye. I swear, the second I put them on I started to levitate. When I saw the price, I nearly flew through the roof.  Seventy pounds. Seventy. Seven-zero. Fuck. Me. Sideways. With only seventeen quid to my name and the sad realization that I am still on planet Earth where rent was looming, I left Retro woman, shoeless and alone, vowing never to waste my money on frivolous things like food or public transit again, so that one day-- one sweet, blessed day -- I can give those Choo's the proper home they deserve. 

The shitty thing about being poor is always having to choose between one thing or another. You can never have it all, or even half of it all. Do I eat this weekend, or do I drink? Do I buy this pair of Jimmy Choo Mary Jane's, or do I host my very first Canadian Thanksgiving in London? To be honest, I don't know where my head was at with this one. Since when in God's name would Chelsea Beamish choose slaving away in a kitchen all day to please others, over treating herself to a pair of vintage designer shoes and basking in the glow of her selfish purchase? I conclude, in retrospect, I must have been high. 

October 5th. The first Sunday in October, and what would now be known as the day I popped my turkey cherry and conjured up an entire Thanksgiving feast for a group of poor, unsuspecting victims-- I mean friends. The beautiful thing about London is the ridiculously low price of groceries. All said and done, this meal cost less than one hundred pounds for a guest list of ten people-- including decorative pumpkins and a cranberry/sunflower bouquet. Back to the shitty part; discovering just how much of Canada cannot be found in London. Let me begin with pumpkin pie. I might as well end with pumpkin pie, for a city that is unaware of it's existence is not a city at all. The look on the Sainsbury woman's face when I asked where to find pumpkin puree closely resembled that of a face had I asked where to find canned asshole. Thank God for Whole Foods. What might as well have been ten pounds later, I had myself a single can of pumpkin puree. Do I even bother discussing my search for frozen pie shells? Jesus Christ. When the third Sainsbury's employee led me, dumbfounded, through the frozen food isle, stopping in front of pre packaged phyllo pastry, I honestly considered throwing my can of pumpkin at his empty skull-- until I realized I had no can of pumpkin to throw because these people are bloody retards! Yeah, alright. I was planning to have a greek themed Thanksgiving anyways, so this is perfect. Fucktards. 

I'm allowed to call them fucktards because the moment I stepped inside Clapham Old Town's most popular butcher shop, I was easily just as deserving of the word, if not more. 

Butcher: Can I help you?

Fucktard: Yes! I need a turkey. Do you have those?

Butcher: Yes, we have many--

Fucktard: --I'll take one! 

Rudely interrupted Butcher: …We have many that are reserved for other customers. 

Fucktard: Oh.

Butcher: Would you like to order one?

Fucktard: Yes. I think so. 

Butcher: (sports expression similar to mine while standing in front of phyllo pastry)

Fucktard: You wouldn't happen to be able to tell me what to do with the turkey once I buy it, would you? Because that's as far as I know. 

Butcher: (Rolls eyes to heaven, curses the choice to open his shop today and suggests I order a turkey crown out of fear that I am not able for an entire turkey at this stage of my adult life.)

Forty pounds that could have gone towards my newly desired retro shoe collection later, I had a crown ordered (don't even know what that means) and a less than impressed butcher contemplating placing me on yet another blacklist. 

Butcher: Your turkey will be ready for pick up on Saturday. 

Fucktard: Great! Will you be working then?

Butcher: Unfortunately. 

Fucktard: Excellent. So you'll be able to walk me through this whole process, step by step!?

Butcher: I can hardly wait. 

To everyone's disbelief-- mine especially-- dinner was a flawless success. Apart from cheating over boxed stuffing (it was Jamie Oliver, so I'd hardly say it's cheating at all, really) I managed to pull together an entire holiday meal without a single visit from Clapham's fire department, nor any reports of life threatening food poisoning. This leads me to believe I am now the champion of the kitchen, and as most champions do when they've hit the upmost point of success, I will retire from my oven side position. Always go out with a bang, I say. 

(A few days later, I tried to make an omelette and wound up eating egg soup. Confirmation that my reign as head chef has most certainly come and gone.)

Nothin' Shakin' (But the Leaves on the Trees)

Tuesday October 21/2014

Tonight I discovered what foxes (fox? What's the plural?) sound like. More specifically, what fox sound like when they're in the midst of viciously ripping each other's adorable little heads off. At first, I thought it was just a few very unhappy cats. But once I pried myself from the warm bubbles of my British bathtub, I realized it was far worse. Foxes. Desperate, high-pitched shrieking, as if a cat and a small child simultaneously had an appendage of theirs caught between a slamming door and it's frame. And it doesn't stop. Just when you think the to-the-death dual has subsided, they actually follow each other, begging for more. This will continue long into the night. Masochistic, hot headed, tireless foxes. 

Welcome to my new flat. 

I actually love my new flat. Almost as much as I like saying that I indeed have my own flat. And the word flat. So much more fun to say than apartment, or house. My flat, nestled within the William Bonney Estate, is a mere hop, skip, and a jump away from my brother, Josh's flat, and one hop (no skip or jump required) from the infamous Alex-- which upon reflection, may lean more on the side of a con, than a pro. It is a common joke that in London, relationships tend to fast track at an incredible pace, specifically surrounding the idea of couples moving in together. With the atrocious cost of living and rent in the city, when a couple spends anywhere from 3 months, or even 3 weeks together and survives, still liking each other-- for the most part--it's inevitable that the idea of sharing living spaces--more so splitting rent-- is a common, and efficient next step. So you could say the Irishman and myself actually took our time deciding to officially move in together. Late bloomers, really, given our place of residence. I was hesitant at first, of course, what with my whole independent woman thing I've had going for me the past half year. But if we're being honest, I was really just resisting having to share closet space. Considering we practically already spend every conscious and unconscious loving minute together, why not seal that conscious and unconscious love with a shared bedroom and a signed rental agreement? And so we did. We now share a bedroom-- but not a closet-- and the rest of a cozy two bedroom with Chris's brother, Gavin. The realization that I had basically moved in with two Christophers didn't take long to sink in. I doubt a crazier or more ill-tempered group of flatmates has ever existed. But we do, and somehow it works.

The area of which we now reside is convenient in every aspect of the word. Sushi and chinese across the road, cafes and laundrettes beside that. The Clapham Common tube station a three minute walk, and Sainsbury's is so close we could practically shout our grocery order from outside our living room window. When we first moved in, our internet hadn't, so I was bumming the wifi off a little cafe across the street called Coffee Wake up on a daily basis. After about a week of ordering one chai and loitering long enough to have ordered five, the owner acknowledged me and struck up a conversation involving my newly acquired local status, and his excitement to have an addition to his regulars. We chatted about this and that, and exchanged names while he poured my dirty chai. Now since returning to London, my luck with receiving free food has dissipated greatly. Almost entirely. I've even begun to believe that perhaps this act of kindness wasn't a form of hitting on me at all, but rather pity. Oh that poor, chubby girl must be starving. Here, have some fried chicken, a free kebab, take everything. Now that I've deflated a great deal, food offerings have as well. So you can imagine my immense gratitude when Peter (Coffee Wake Up owner, and Italian immigrant) didn't charge me for my added espresso shot.  On top of which, he also stamped FIVE cartoon coffee mugs on my loyalty card, which left me with only a mere two until a free cuppa! I left Coffee Wake Up feeling appreciated and greatly cherished within my new community. I looked forward to walking into the cafe each day with conversations that would inevitably go as follows: Hey Peter! Ciao Chelsea! A dirty chai? We have a new flavour this month, Vanilla cinnamon! Try, try. It's on the house. Splendid. 

The next day I entered Coffee wake up, grinning ear to ear. I waved to Peter and shouted an overly enthusiastic greeting. He smiled and went along with his business. Peter had no recollection of who I was. After charging me for my added shot of espresso, he asked if I had a loyalty card. I took the single stamped card and sulked all three of the steps it took to get back home. Fuck Coffee Wake up. And fuck the Italian cunt. Black Lab's chai tastes way better anyway. And they have cronuts. Which I don't eat anymore due to my skinny choices. But I still like looking at them. They're just so pretty. 

Putting aside the beginnings of a stirring resentment for all things local in my neighbourhood, the Irishman and I decided to spend a night out exploring, and by exploring I mean drinking, throughout the area. As the night closed in, we found ourselves at Pizza Inn, our now local chipper who's slogan greatly resembles that of Pizza Hut, serves Italian pizza and Mediterranean kebabs, and is run by Indians. Classic. Like any red blooded human being that walks the streets of London at 3am, naturally I ordered a serving of chips. Now anyone in their right mind will tell you that ordering chips is just an excuse to eat sauces. Any and every type of sauce, all co-mingled perfectly to drown the chips completely, leaving only hints of floating tips of salty survivors to be seen. When the Indian man behind the till asked WHICH sauce I wanted, I felt slight pangs of anger build within, but calmed myself enough to reply with, All. All the sauces. Please. With only three choices to offer, ketchup and mayonnaise having already been poured, I requested a great deal of chilli sauce. More chilli sauce. A little bit more. Looking up from the pool of red and white swirls, the man put down the chilli bottle and called me greedy. The next time I went into Pizza Inn, I was told, no sauces and thrown a single packet of mayo. The time after that, without a word, I was handed the yellow takeaway box of dry chips. Not even so much as a vinegar offering. That night I told Chris that I was boycotting Pizza Inn and we were not to so much as look into the windows as we passed by. We would just have to walk the extra five minutes to Gizele, the chipper beside the Alex that offers boat loads of sauces, and even gives you a free lollipop while you wait. Four days later, I walked out of Pizza Inn with a dry box of chips and a Sainsbury's bag filled with numerous bottles of sauce. It's just so convenient. And I'm weak. But I did, and continue to, give them a dirty look every time I am handed the drought that is my chip box. So there. Cunts. 

Despite my unfortunate, but immense dislike for most businesses in my new neighbourhood (don't even get me started on the so called "sushi" at the Japanese/chinese/bullshit/wank of a restaurant across the street) I am ecstatic about my second chapter in London. How could I not be when Fall has arrived!? Sorry, Autumn. Don't say Fall. Fall- shit- Autumn in London. What a magical thing. Magical mostly due to it's incredibly frequent disappearing and reappearing act. It begins with a perfectly sunny, summer day with just a hint of a cool breeze. Then leaves will begin to appear on the ground. You don't see them fall, and not a single leaf on the trees stray from green, yet orange and red crunchy leaves continue to build in masses on the streets. It's as though they change colour while simultaneously falling to the ground. Instantly everyone is dressed in coats, boots, and scarves even though the temperature has barely strayed from the days of shorts and sandals. Fall--for fuck sakes!-- AUTUMN happens to be my absolute favourite time of the year, so my incessant need to run through the fallen leaves, kicking up my long imprisoned leather UGG riding boots, my smile beaming beneath my knitted toque was quickly satisfied. Until I started sweating profusely and had to change into a pair of sneakers, a tshirt, and return my UGGs and toque to their closet jail where they would remain for another 3 weeks. Which brings me to now; where all the trees are shaded gold, and every day is accompanied with winds that swirl even more leaves around your feet. Enter the season's vanishing act. It's like winter is just sitting there, stewing impatiently. It gives it's neighbouring season a good 5 days of consistent gorgeous autumn weather and then it's literally a fight to the death. Each day is a battle between the two. Monday: Pouring rain, everything is grey, and your breath is as visible as your reflection in the pond sized puddles inhabiting the freezing city. Tuesday: You awake to the sun blazing through the multi-coloured trees, pouring heat and light in through your window. Wednesday: Bone chilling, uncontrollable shivering, safer to not leave the house kind of a day. Thursday: Not a cloud in sight, let's spend the day on a blanket in the common reading a book and drinking a PSL. And so on and so forth. But I suppose that's London for you. For a city that is so unpredictable, so full of surprises and constant changes, it's really only fitting to have with it such bipolar weather. The most bipolar weather I've ever experienced. And I lived in India. During monsoon season. 

Across the Universe

September 26/2014

The thing about living as a Canadian in London, is that amongst the hundreds of various accents and ethnicities, Canadians are as easy to find as ketchup chips-- which are almost impossible to find, and not nearly as delicious. (Note: This analogy in no way insinuates that Canadians in London are not as delicious as ones back home. In fact, I feel we are quite the opposite. Even more delicious and intriguing, really. A delicacy of sorts.) 

After six months of hearing nothing but Irish, English, and Australian dialects, it came as quite a surprise to board an Air Canada plane bound for my homeland, and be completely surrounded by the sound of my people. What is worse, was the discovery that, alas, all of my European mates were right… We really do sound absolutely ridiculous. 

But allow me to backtrack. 

The night before my impending departure, the Irishman and I decided to have a few farewell cocktails here and there, and everywhere around Clapham. Needless to say, these "few cocktails" gradually increased in number, leading to a crack of dawn stagger home, and one last intimate embrace with the porcelain throne. I awoke to the pre booked taxi-cab waiting impatiently at the Bachelor Paddy doorway. Shit. I'd like to imagine that I raced to gather my things and haul myself into the idling vehicle, but there was no racing. I'm fairly confident I was still drunk. There was no racing. Passed out and draped across Chris, the human cushion, I managed to arrive on time, but hardly in one piece, to Heathrow Airport, with enough time to share an unsuccessful sobering-up-coffee with my man friend before we were forced to say our goodbyes. In hindsight, the fact that I was still not firing on all cylinders may have eased the blow as he hugged me for the last time before I jetted away for six very long weeks. 

Which brings me to my sitting in a large tin can, surrounded by my own obnoxious sounding kind, contemplating ending my life. An eight hour flight, followed by an excruciatingly long lay over, followed by another five hour flight, another lay over, and ending in an additional fifty minute flight sucks ass. All of the above plus one epically aggressive hangover is suicide inducing. And worth questioning if I have even the slightest bit of braincells left in the daft head of mine. I tried to find solace in Russell Crowe, but it's hard when he's chosen to become so old and fat. The fact that I was attempting to watch him in a film where Jesus makes his fat, old ass live on a swaying boat filled with shitty, repulsive smelling animal pairs didn't exactly help my nausea, either. So I slept. Or tried to, anyway. Fucking babies. 

I arrived in Kelowna feeling less than alive, and looking like I belonged in the background of The Walking Dead, chewing on my own limp arm. There, in the arrivals area, stood Julie Ness, the love of my life, basking in all her drop dead (not the same kind of dead as my dead) gorgeousness. The skinny bitch looked flawless; a short, black summer frock draped over her barely there figure, just see through enough to notice the space between her petite thighs, while my gargantuan thighs rubbed so closely together that I could have easily started a small fire, as I ran to her open, twig like arms. If my ever-growing-tighter-fat-pants weren't enough to get my fat ass into shape, the sight of my dearest friend was bound to do the trick. We could have easily held each other for hours, but instead we gathered my bags and headed to the Lachner residence, ie: my home. 

It's a strange thing, really. To be home for the first time in almost six months and feel like you've never even left, while at the same time feeling like it's been an eternity. As happy as I was to be home, I already missed the city's never ending insanity. The nights came too early, and were far too quiet. The bars were tame, the streets were empty; not once did someone bump in to me then look at me as if I'd just elevated up from hell to purposely get in their very busy, very important way. There is a simplicity that comes with the small town of Kelowna that I definitely cherished, however. An ease to every activity, every errand, every day. I appreciated it. I relaxed into it and allowed it to restore the damage my beloved, yet crazy city had bestowed upon me. It didn't take long for my sobriety and daily yoga attendance to take it's effect on Inflata-Chelsea. I could no longer mistake my giant rolls for my ever enlarging breasts, and I could even see my toes without drastically sucking in my paunch. A final victory for the blossoming skinny bitch and what I can only hope to be a permanent farewell to the fat cunt. 

I spent the next six weeks inside dance studio, after dance studio. When I wasn't teaching, I was dreaming about teaching. When I wasn't choreographing, I was still choreographing. In the kitchen, up and down isles of grocery stores, while driving down the wide Canadian streets (not the wisest of choices). I was back. And it felt incredible. This time I wasn't going to let myself fall down the bottomless rabbit hole. My return to London would be a fresh start. Take two. Black-out-drunk-Chelsea replaced by the role of Career-Hungry-Small-Glasses-Of-Wine-On-Weekends-Chelsea. Yes. Much better. 

But before this swap could take place, there had to be an in-between Chelsea. The, My-Irish-Boyfriend-Is-Coming-To-Canada-And-I-Must-be-In-Holiday-Mode-Chelsea. I still like that Chelsea. And so I was. And so he did. He came, he saw, he experienced table service at a bar, he fell in love (minus the table service bit), and I fell in love with the idea that maybe, just maybe, one day, far into the future, a big headed Canadian, and a hot headed Irishman could find themselves living happily ever after in Kelowna's simplicity. Maybe…

But in the meantime, I need to pluck my head out of the clouds and live in the present. The present being London. When I think that a quarter of my limited time here has already passed, my stomach flips and my heart sinks. It's time to make the most of what's left of my expiring love affair with this enchanted city. Here's to us; may we treat each other like every day is our last, and love each other like those days will never end.   

It Won't be Long

Saturday July 5/2014

The rate at which time flies lately is almost getting on my nerves. How is it July already? Five months have passed. Five! That's almost half a year. What the hell? Five months of calling myself a UK resident and now here I am, a week before I return to Canada, feeling pangs of anxiety. To be clear, I will only be in Canada for seven weeks-- one of which stupid ginger beard will be joining me-- but still, the thought of leaving my metropolis lover is nausea inducing. It's surprising really, just how much I don't want to leave. Of course, I am over the moon excited to see my family and friends. And every day I am reminded of things I will be able to enjoy again that aren't readily available to me here (Kraft Dinner, Oh Henry chocolate bars, driving a car, legitimately delicious sushi, the beach, being able to use phrases like 'double fisting' and not be looked at like some kind of perv). But the idea of leaving my beloved community, well it feels a lot like giving up chocolate, an attempt that is never successful, and completely unnecessary. What I'm really looking forward to is the motivation that I know will come from six weeks of teaching in Canadia. A month and a half locked away in a dance studio is just what I neeed to remind my fat ass what exactly it initially came to London to do. Dance. Even so, with each remaining day passing quickly by, I can't help but think how different it's all going to be. 

For instance, I highly doubt my tendency to receive free shit almost everywhere I go, will carry over to Canada. One of the biggest perks of living where I do, is how often I am given free food. Generally, all it takes is opening my mouth long enough for men to hear I have a Canadian accent, and bam. Free shit. There's a Kabab shop mid way between The Alex and the unnamed bar. When I worked at the Alex, I would often stop in on my way home for a late night meat fest (not intended to sound sexual). The first time I went in, the kebab men and myself participated in broken english, barely understandable small talk. One man yelled something in whatever european language to the chubby, quieter one, and two seconds later he was coming up the stairs with a single red rose. The yelling man handed me my kebab, along with the perfectly wrapped red rose, and smiled. The next week I came in to satisfy another meat craving, I was greeted with a communal "It's the Alex Girl! Hello Alex!" And then I left with my kebab and a free tub of homemade humus-- extra black olives on top. Since the surrender of my "Alex Girl" title, visits to my kebab men have become sparse. But every now and then I'll catch their eyes as I walk past and will be received with a big grin, and excited wave. It's not humus, but it's still cute. I'm not bothered though. Charlie's Fish Bar beside Clapham North Station more than makes up for my lack of flowers and smashed chick pea dip. Whilst waiting for yet another kebab, the man asked if I was Canadian. I said, yes. He asked if I was enjoying my time here. Yes. He asked if I liked meat. Without first wondering if this was in fact sexual innuendo for his man meat, I naturally said, yes. Two minutes later he set a small box of fried chicken before me. 

"It's fresh, just been cooked. Please, enjoy."

I had already ordered a full kebab, a side of chips and onion rings, and a giant gherkin, but ya, of course I'll eat this box of greasy chicken.

Then there's the Caribbean Roti house beside the unnamed bar that always gives me free sides of sauces with whatever I order. Even if I order something that couldn't possibly go well with gravy, a side of gravy will always be dished out. On the house. "Just for you!" 

The little old italian man in Stratford who gives me free cookies while I wait for my panini to toast. The young, lanky dark haired fella that works at my favourite coffee house, and always lets me stay long past close when I'm writing.  

But the best is my overly kind produce man. He sets up his fruit and veggie stand directly in front of a corner store that sits between the bachelor pad-dy and the underground, which means so long as I leave the house, crossing paths is unavoidable. So every day I say hi and smile, and every day he gives me a free banana. A banana which I choose to believe is not a symbol of him wanting to give me his actual man banana. I still have naive tendencies. This went on for some time, with the odd offering of other fruit, but in the end I'd still always leave with a banana, regardless if I asked for blueberries. Finally the day came when I could no longer deny the fact that my produce man had an agenda, and he wasn't just looking out for my potassium intake. 

"I love your body. When will you meet with me?"

The next day I took Irish for a walk past the produce stand, making sure his arm was wrapped tightly around my waist as we turned the corner. I don't get free bananas anymore. Such a shame though, creepy produce man was my only hope at ingesting healthy food on a regular basis. 

If it was only a matter of sacrificing free food upon returning to Canada, I could probably learn to deal with this--not to mention lose a little chub in the process-- but it is unfortunately more than that. I have already come to terms with the fact that once back in my home and native land, I will be perceived as a raging alcoholic. I will be disappointed when no one wants to go to the bar on a Monday for a few cheeky pints. Or feel an emptiness when I don't wake up on a Friday morning to a particular pad-dy flatmate offering me champagne (sans orange juice. I've learned this is just a watered down waste). There may be a few judgemental stares, an annoyed eye roll when I whinge, repeatedly, over the inconvenience of the 'liquor store' and that I am forced to purchase my cider (if I can even find a good Magners in these parts) separate from my peanut butter. Perhaps an attempted intervention here and there. And because I still have enough brain cells to anticipate all of this, I decided to begin my booze hiatus before Canada, therein avoiding public knowledge of my transition to a pained alcohol-free existence, and inevitable emotional and physical withdrawal symptoms. I decided that I would seize all consumption of alcohol for the last two weeks leading up to my departure. Believe me, I am well aware how ridiculous it sounds that two weeks without liquor is a challenge. A great one at that. 

Day one and I felt great. I was determined and hopeful. Day two was also grand. I could swear I could already feel my waistline deflating, and my liver regenerating. I even managed to spend an evening in the Alex and not succumb to pint pressure. Day three and four were a breeze. Teaching dance is like an alcoholic's kryptonite. The only time I crave H20 over B52. I don't think I've ever had a B52, but it reads well. Day five worried me. Friday. Closing shift at the unnamed bar. But my favourite bar wench was also avoiding the devil's juice and reassured me we'd conquer the jager-less evening together. And we did. Amazing. Saturday I woke up as if I'd slept in a field of daisies, surrounded by little white kittens, while being spooned by Jesus. In other words, I was hang over free. What a feeling. A foreign one, but a lovely one. This sobriety business is super cool guys. It's really awesome. (Sorry, practicing my Canadian) (Sorry-- Even my brackets sound Canadian). Having avoided the hang over plague, I was actually game for a fun filled, gin free day in Camden Town. Irish and I weaved our way through the endless rows of every sellable material item imaginable. It's the market that never ends. Yes it goes on and on my friend. Some people started walking it not knowing where it ends-- and then they needed a pint. I would have killed a small child for a pint of Mortimer's at this point. No, I don't care about children enough to emphasize my feelings that way. I would have ripped the head off a baby sloth and force fed it down the throat of its mother for even a half pint. That's actually quite horrible. I don't think I would do that. I love sloths. I wonder if you could train a sloth to bring you a pint bottle of cider. It's long furry arm reaching out to you with it's tiny little claw hands wrapped around it, it's slightly creepy but ridiculously cute half smirking face looking up at you, without judgement. I bet you could. 

I digress. We found a hipster bar amid the market chaos. Chris ordered a cider (bastard), and I occupied an obnoxious amount of the bartenders time fighting my inner drunk demons. To my own disbelief, my sober self proved victorious. If only I could describe how satisfying an ice cold glass of fresh cucumber water is after a long day in close proximity to delightfully oblivious tourists. I imagine the description would be just as free from sarcasm as the previous sentence-- and the current. Bullocks. Day six can suck my bullocks. Some more wandering and then the discovery of a tiki bar. Another cider for the boyfriend I was beginning to loath, and a deliciously refreshing glass of pineapple juice and soda for the most agitated, non-alcoholic in Camden. Despite my new found ability to go from 0-10 in a half a second with regards to any emotion, I was doing quite well, and genuinely enjoying the day. I had successfully kept my sobriety. The devil had tempted me and I remained strong. We returned to Clapham in the early eve and both agreed we weren't ready to go home. A stop in at Clapham North Pub on the way home would suffice. The minute we entered the pub, something shifted. It was as if the Clapham air had me instantly hypnotized. Without a single thought, I word vomited a request for a large white wine spritzer. Maintaining my cool, I simply justified my moment of weakness as a more than deserved celebratory hall pass for being so strong for 5.75 days, particularly the most recent .75 day. One measly glass of wine is nothing. 

Four measly glasses of wine, two ciders, and a double Hendrick's gin later, and my hall pass had become a one way ticket to rehab. God dammit. Quitting drinking is a lot like dieting; one single cookie slip and you've convinced yourself the entire day is ruined, and a complete right off so you might as well finish the jar, order pizza and bake a cake which you will proceed to devour by yourself, alone in the dark. My diet starts tomorrow, you tell yourself. 

My sobriety starts tomorrow, I told myself as I sat, gleefully swaying to the groovy tunage of my favourite bar in Clapham, Cafe Cairo. The ultimate hippy bar. I may not be a hippy myself, but this place makes me want to stop shaving my armpits, pierce a pointless part of my face, and talk in a much softer tone while sipping herbal oolong tea laced with cannabis. The tiniest little hideaway, only steps from the bachelor pad-dy; easily unnoticed amongst it's strip of various neighbours, despite it's outside being deep red. The inside is small and narrow filled with mismatching tables and chairs and the dreadlocked patrons that occupy them. The bar serves overpriced, mostly crushed ice cocktails, organic cider, and wine in cups. Next to the bar sits two vital components of a perfect bar: a glass case filled with liquer infused truffles, and a turkish delight stand. But what honestly has me obsessing over this strange oasis more than anything is the bread station. Yes. Across from the bar, stands the most brilliant use of space conceivable. Raised by a small stairway, a red toaster, a cupboard overflowing with complimentary bread, and a row of various spreads, including MARMITE and PEANUT BUTTER await weed motivated munchy victims, and myself. Absolutely brilliant. A long corridor takes you to little rooms decorated with worldly nicknacks, a garden that might as well grow it's own marijuana, and two bathroom stalls that could easily be mistaken as outhouses. But like cute outhouses, with flushing toilets and a surprisingly fresh aroma. As you do your business, you quickly realize you are not alone. A rather posh voice fills the indoor outhouse and for a moment you are a tad frightened, before realizing this voice is educating you on how to say your uncle lives in America in Arabic. Or that you have a family of four. You end up sitting in the faux outhouse for much longer than socially acceptable, trying to pronounce, Where is the nearest camel? 

The night of my wagon falling, we had met up with Irish's brother, Gavin, and later the third addition to the bachelor pad-dy, Anton and his evening's spanish squeeze. Now usually the cafe plays anything from middle eastern chanting hymns, to mellow, slightly bizarre house music-- what house would sound like if it had just smoked a joint-- but tonight was another story. While sipping forbidden drink number god knows what, a particularly hairy man appeared from a set of stairs letting us know there would be a live band playing in the basement, and to feel free to join in on what would be a very good time. Why the hell not. When a particularly hairy man invites you downstairs for a very good time, you just say yes. The basement of Cafe Cairo is like a psychedelic version of Ghandi's rumpus room, assuming Ghandi had a rumpus room. Bean bags and giant pillows in corners make for intimate seating, along with heavily patterned couches that could have once inhabited your great grandmother's house. The walls house little cubbies filled with more pillows and have you questioning how many stoned couples have crawled out of them with post sex faces, their dreads a tad messier than when they crawled in. A disco ball sits under a mirrored pyramid and red, rotating lazer lights make you question if you're experiencing a vicarious contact high. The life sized stuffed camel in the room doesn't help either. Though normally fairly empty, on this night, the room was littered with eager listeners sitting cross legged, facing a small stage, tucked in a corner. I wondered for a moment, whether we had unknowingly stepped into some kind of cult gathering. There better not be any sacrificial sheep slaughtering. 

No, apparently Cuban-Celtic music just has a very huge following. Cuban-Celtic music. It sounds exactly like what you're trying to imagine right now. But I strangely enjoyed it. Or maybe I just enjoyed the carefree, chilled out atmosphere. Those hippies and their calm ora can be quite contagious. I sat in front of stupid ginger beard, at the back of the overly zen room, leaning against his chest, half listening to the confusion that was Cuban-Celtic. In that moment, I realized how much I was going to miss him. I was really going to miss him. I told him this, and we talked about it. We talked about it like two grown ups, who know that life happens, and that is that. And then we got shhhh'd like two small children and were warned that if we couldn't keep it down we would be asked to leave. So much for that zen atmosphere, you hippy wankers. 

The next morning I had a hang over so intense that I would have willingly sacrificed my own life to the Cuban-Celtic hippy cult, rather than live through such hell. Concluding that 6 days without booze makes for a supremely worse hangover, I swore to myself I would never quit drinking again. So help me Alah.