Eight Days a Week

Wednesday February 26/2014

A week has passed since stepping foot on British soil. I, Chelsea Beamish, am a resident of London, England. I sit here now, typing away on my own bed, in my own room, with my own laundry hanging to dry, my own UK cell phone charging next to my own bedside table ridden with photographs, goodbye cards, and all types of sentimental crap I couldn't bare to part with. I look out my window into the window across from mine at a man in a red sweater (sorry, 'Jumper') smelling lettuce and talking on the phone. And I think to myself, if one were to look into my window, I'd just be another british bird punching away at her computer and sipping a cider. What a lovely thought. But this is only day one of putting ownership on the contents of my rented room in a flat in South London that I share with an endearing bloke by the name of Dan. Dan is the man. 

My first week in London was spent in the East side, an area called Hackney, with Angela's sister Bernie, her husband Brian, and their ridiculously adorable 6 month old Bobby. Seriously, I don't generally like children, but this kid might as well be on prozac for how happy and easy going he is. I might just be in love with him. The moment after setting my bags down in their uber trendy flat reconstructed from an old iron mill, I was out the door and off to meet my brother, Josh, in central London for a night of exploration. Shockingly without fail, I managed to make my way through tube station after tube station, overground and underground, southbound, westbound. I typically get lost in a grocery store so this is an incredible feat for me. And finally I am in the heart of London, and my heart wants to leap from my chest and explode over every cobblestone street, double decker, adorably european cafe, and flashing billboard. People are everywhere but I see nothing but what I already knew I would. I see my home. This is where I have always dreamt I would be, where I should be. My heart beats faster with every corner we turn. The Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, Les Miserable, the seven dials, my brain is on overload but craves for more. I live here. What madness. We find ourselves at a tiny Italian restaurant Josh had eaten at previously and fell in love with, and I could see why. The intimately small dining room, the authentic and fetching italian servers with their broken english and delightful red aprons. The endless jars of pickled this and packed in oil that filling the walls and making waiting for your food feel like an absolute eternity. All of these things made me want to move in to this gem of a restaurant, sleep in a broom closet and never ever leave. I hadn't even tasted the food. Let me assure you, upon tasting the first bite, I was seriously contemplating how this would all be possible. I'm sure I could arrange some kind of work to live situation, and with the pleasant company of the sicilian servers, I'd really have all a girl could need. We ordered a cheese and meat plate that came with the most delicious bread, sundried tomatoes, and… pickles. I have already started mentally unpacking my things in the closet. Next was a flatbread with roasted tomatoes and more meat, all while sipping on a glass of red wine. I have found my heaven and it is glorious. On the way home I couldn't help but skip my way down the narrow streets of "trashy-trendy" Hackney. Not only had I arrived, but I was navigating my way back to the triple B's without an ounce of hesitation as to where I was going. The streets were empty. It was just me, the Beatles, and London. Alone together at last. The previous 'swallowed bowling ball' sensation has now morphed into borderline psychopathic laughter. Every time the thought surfaces that I live in London, I instantly burst out in billowing laughter. It's just funny. It's so real that it's just hilarious. It's hilarious. I live in London. 

Every night to follow was filled with tube treks to new and marvellous areas of London. Each one being just as amazing and perfect as the last. Brixton food market for a full english breakfast and maple bacon pancakes (gotta keep some Canadian in me alive). Movie nights at the cinema equipped with WINE and peanut butter popcorn. Venn street market for fine cheese, fresh vegetables, apple cider donuts, and cookies that could easily be mistaken for frisbees. Yup, still fat. Back to Brixton market for the best pizza I've ever put in my mouth. But what could quite possibly be the most shocking and oddly entertaining evening of my life, let alone my time in London, is where I will go into great detail. Angela and I decided to have a laid back evening involving a laid back bar in Hackney, The Crate. I'm not even sure it could be classified as a bar. Nestled beside a little channel deep in the hipster chic industrial regions. this place reminded me much of Granville Island in Vancouver. Cool, easy, wooden, and humble. Not generally a target of bar fights, one would say. Alas, enter Chelsea. We are on our first round, alone at the bar with maybe 10 others occupying a few tables. A woman approaches the bar, hammered as all hell would be a great understatement. She has a glass of red wine in her hand, that in moments is bound to hit the floor. She sits on a stool beside Angela and with every ounce of willpower, raises her eyelids just enough to look at us and smile. Now the following conversation is my best efforts to decipher whatever it was this mad woman was trying to say. It went something like this:

Mad woman: "I am sooooo drunk. I think I'm drunk."

Chelsea: "Yes, you may very well be by the looks of things."

Mad woman: (swaying side to side, and bobble heading) Mumble, mumble, mumble, something about red wine. Mumble, drools on face, too much wine. Mumble. Too much. 

Chelsea: "Yes, your teeth practically match your hair. Best you take it easy."

Mad woman looks up at Chelsea, mumbles something about Chelsea's smile. Continues to repeat, "Your smile, your smile" as she walks past Angela. She approaches Chelsea with open hands, stretched towards her face. Naturally, Chelsea assumes this mad woman is now a horny mad woman and is about to attempt to kiss her. That thought vanishes swiftly upon A PUNCH IN THE FACE. 

Yes. I was punched in the face by a wine tooth ridden, burgundy headed, sloshed as shit, whack of a woman. Not once, but twice. Bam! Swipe to the right cheek. Bam! Jab to the left. I didn't even have time to process what the fuck was happening to me before the second fist struck. I mean I get the whole turn the other cheek thing, but Jesus, this was too literal. Instantly, all three bartenders were creating a barrier between me and this crazy ass bitch who was still swatting at me while being restrained by two large men. She was yelling at me, in what I can only assume was some kind of demonic language, as I've come to conclude she was heavily possessed. They finally managed to get the Exorcist Part 3 to vacate the premise and I just sat there, in completely disbelief, laughing uncontrollably. Because what else can you do? You get sucker punched, you laugh about it. 

So there you have it. Chelsea goes to london and gets bitch slapped. But just to put the icing on the cake, because that can never be all there is, before and after my public beating, I was having a pleasantly flirty exchange with one of the cute, trashy-trendy bartenders. Feeling like no one will turn down a girl who could possibly wake up with a black eye or two, I attempted to ask him out. 

"My girlfriend lives an hour from here."

Awesome. 

Kick me when I'm down, friend. And spit a little too, just for shits and giggles. 

But it's ok. Hackney is past me and hopefully here in Clapham, I will avoid future run ins with satanic red heads and their Tyson like fists.