A Hard Day's Night

Monday March 24/2014

If I were to tell you that my first shift at The Alexandra went seamlessly, you could probably argue that that is a bit of a stretch. But considering the circumstances, I can say I definitely held my own. Things don't go down here the way they do in Canada. In so many more ways than one. It's total bizarro world, and employment is no exception. 

Canada: You're hired. Come in for a three hour orientation, six training shifts, two shadowing shifts, and then we'll see about giving you a small section of two or three tables for four hours on a Tuesday and go from there. 

The UK: You're hired. You start on Saturday night. Don't fuck up. 

So Saturday came. The Saturday after my flawlessly fancy date, I might add. And I was ready for battle. Combat boots and all. Skinny jeans (even typing that is a sad mockery of the word) and in proper canadian fashion, a checkered flannel button up. Later, I will be cursing myself for this choice, but regardless, I looked pretty dope. Again, in proper Canadian fashion, I showed up fifteen minutes early. Dumb. People don't do that here. 

"Hi, I'm Chelsea. I'm supposed to be starting here tonight…?" Why I formed that like a question, I couldn't be sure. Suddenly I was incredibly intimidated. The place was packed, mostly with men, and I felt very small and slightly retarded. 

"Oh, alright. Sure." The tall young man on the other side of the bar says as he looks around. "Paul's not here yet but I guess I can show you around."

Great. 

"So this is the bar. We have four stations. There's the oval bar down at the end. We also have an upstairs balcony bar that we open on certain days. These are our main spirits, the rest are spread around the bar. Ice. Soda guns. Wine fridges. Jager and tequila down here. This is the system. Main screen, food, bar, specialty spirits, snacks and tobacco. We don't sell tobacco. Tap here to delete. I'll give you a temporary fob for now. This is the kitchen".

I'm standing in a space no bigger than three feet by five feet. One shelf, a glassware washer, a sink, and a fridge big enough to hold a bottle of ketchup, mayonnaise, and 4 bottles of malt vinegar. 

"We serve food, but obviously we don't have the facility to make food, so we order it from the Bellevue down the street."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Ya, it's kind of a shitty system. Customers order, we ring it through then call up the Bellevue. They call when it's ready, and we walk to pick it up then plate it here."

"You're kidding."

"Nope."

Great.

I follow Gareth (that's his name) down a very steep, very frightening flight of stairs off the "kitchen". As we walk through what could only be described as a dungeon… or an alcoholic's heaven, Gareth points to rooms as we pass. "Storage room. Spirits room. Here's where we keep the kegs. You know how to change a keg, right?"

"Yup, sure do." I haven't changed a keg in almost two years. Who knows if I remember what the hell to do. 

"White wine is stored here, red is in with the spirits. Ice box. That's the office. Here's a fob. You good?"

"Yup. Totally."

What the fuck.

"So this is your first trial shift, then?"

"My what? Oh this is a trial shift."

(Awkward smile from Gareth)

"So I'm not technically employed."

(Bigger smile. More awkwardness)

"Well shit. Guess I better actually put some effort into tonight, then."

We both laugh, but I'm mortified. I'm quickly dying inside and can feel myself begin to sweat. 

I climb up the stairs and cringe at the thought that I know I'm bound to fall either up or down this death trap at least once a week. That is if I make it through my "trial shift". Fuuuuck. 

I start by putting glassware away. That's relatively safe. Get to know the lay of the land and practice my pranayama deep breathing. But it's not long before eyes are glaring at me from the other side of the bar expecting me to pour their drinks and take their money (money which I still don't have memorized, despite Angela's attempt to quiz me on coin days before). A two pence coin? Really? Is that really necessary? One, two, five, ten, twenty, fifty, one pound, two pound. I know this much, but like hell if I know which is which. But damn did I find out quickly. Blue note is five, or "fiver". Orange is ten, or "tenner". Purple is twenty. Red is fifty, but you better scan that shit. Quid means pounds, and no we don't take card under ten pounds without a 50p charge. 50p, not  50 cents. A mistake I would continue to make throughout the evening. As soon as I took on my first customer, I didn't stop until 1:00am when the last bell finally rang and I withheld the urge to crash to the floor. Person after person, order after order. People growing more and more intoxicated at a substantial rate, and orders growing longer and longer at an equally aggressive pace. Then Jager-o'clock hits and it's a god damn bomb frenzy. Some things are universal. If only this wasn't one of them. 

"One guinness, three fosters, a gin and slim tonic, vodka white, two jameson and ginger, oh and six jagerbombs. No make that seven. And one more guinness."

"Right, got it."

Get to the till… One guinness, two fosters. No two guinness, three fosters, gin and soda, vodka what? Two jameson and ginger, how many jagerbombs? And one more what? Shit, bugger, wank, shit. 

"Hey, miss! Make that 8 jagerbombs! And two tequila shots. Do you have lemon and salt?"

How the fuck should I know if we have lemon and salt. Who does tequila shots with lemon anyways, you tool?

"Of course, right away."

Kill me now. This is why they don't have a kitchen. To prevent poor shmucks like me from sticking my head in the oven. 

This continued for seven straight hours. Non stop. And time only made it worse. Factor in that ridiculous flannel that I thought was so dope and you have a drenched Canadian, exhausted, and scared shitless. Lest we forget I'm in Europe. No tips. I'm literally sweating my balls off for minimum wage. There is no justice in the world. Life is an evil, pitiless bitch, who's obviously never been a bar maid. Oh and to top it all off, and further prove the ruthlessness of the universe, my body decided to have some kind of deranged chemical reaction to God knows what. Stress, overheating, allergy to my own perspiration, all of the above. Whatever it was, my eye decided to swell up to the point that I could hardly see out of it. I'm talking serious Quasimodo shit. No exaggerating. 

Great. 

When the closing bell finally rang, it took everything in my power not to get down on my knees and praise Jesus. Convert right then and there. Born again bar wench finds God on the beer stained, bottle cap ridden floor of the mighty Alexandra. 

But I didn't have time to find Jesus. The bar had closed and now it was my job to close it down. Allow me to once again compare. 

Canada: Bar closes. Clear tables, wash glassware, wipe and reset tables, restock, cash out, go home. 

The UK: Bar closes. Start to clean while continually reminding people to get the fuck out. Clear tables, gather glassware, wash glassware, put away glassware. Wash glassware, put away glassware, wash glassware, put away glassware, wash glassware… you get the point. Take down beer stations, put beer catchers, mats, and every fucking other thing through the dishwasher. Restock, restock, restock, restock. Gather all bottles and trash and take outside, take down all cardboard, fold cardboard, tape up cardboard, label cardboard, send cardboard outside. Restock and store crisps packets, wipe down all tables and stack stools, wipe down bar, clear and close down smoking terrace, and patio. Empty and wash ash trays, sweep floors, MOP floors. Wash glassware, put away glassware. Note spillage, initial check list, and fight with every ounce of your being to stay awake. I'm missing things. I know it. It goes on forever. Spoiled fucking Canadians. 

But it's not all the devil's work. At the end of the night, you can drink whatever drinks customers bought for you on your shift, and Paul usually buys food for closers on weekends. Free food and booze. Aint nothing wrong with that. It's not three hundred bucks in tips, but I like food. And I've quickly grown a lot more fond of liquor living here, if that's even possible. 

Somehow, through all the chaos and heavy perspiration, I managed to make a good impression. Paul said he was impressed and would see me tomorrow. Guess that means I work here.

"Well done tonight, Canadian." Someone says to me. There was no room in my head for useless information like names.

"Thanks. I felt like I got fucked sideways, but thanks."

"Ha! And that wasn't even busy."

Great.

But the next day was Sunday, and although still steadily busy, no where near the chaos of my previous near death experience. There were moments to breathe, chat with customers and fellow staff, and I made sure to wear much less clothing (Quasi did not return). My faith was restored. That is, until someone brought up St. Paddy's day. Why Chelsea? Why couldn't you use your tiny excuse for a brain and wait until AFTER the most insane weekend of the year to get a job at an irish bar that is, on any regular day of the week, packed to the brim with Irishmen? 

"What a shit storm it's going to be." This person continues. "Not only is it St. Paddy's next weekend, but the Six Nations finals. We're going to get raped."

I think I actually stopped breathing. 

Excuse me, I suddenly need to go home and drink myself into a deep coma. 

But it's ok. I've managed to quickly accumulate a large support system, some call it a fan club, comprised of a wide variety of guinness gulping regulars. It began with the older geezers. Vinny, Paul, Ted, Gary, Tommy. And shortly followed with the young group of Irishmen that I swear frequent the bar more than I do. Anton, Gavin, Nuts (Declan), and Chris. Then there is the bar's token couple, Heather and Pat. A relationship that for the longest time I assumed was a butch lesbian and her beard kind of situation, as apposed to a happily married for 30 years type situation. In fairness, she clearly wears the trousers, and quite manly ones at that. Always the one to order- guinness for herself, foster's top for her man wife. And as the night progresses, it's still fosters top for him and double brandy for her. But they are good craic. She tips on occasion and always has my back when creepy ancient Greek Peter talks about wanting to take me away somewhere private for 30 minutes. Not surprisingly, her response to that was, "Sorry Peter, but I'm pretty sure Chelsea likes girls. Isn't that right, Chelsea?" Atta girl, Heather. Well done. Quick and very effective. However, upon reflection, I can't help but wonder if this save had a hidden agenda. Perhaps she really is a lesbian…. 

As for the seasoned vets, their drink of choice is obviously guinness. And never less than six or seven, generally all before 5pm. Not that a girl should pick favourites, but Vinny is definitely ranked highly. If you were to picture a Vinny, I assure you, your idea wouldn't be far from accurate. A big, loud, round fella, with the closest to a cockney accent I've heard to date. So much so, that while on the phone, resentfully ordering food from the Bellevue, I head him say he hadn't realized I was "on the dog". He's always the first about my dates, and which man I've got in the running this week. He does not approve of very tall, very beautiful Sean solely based on the team he plays for. Oh, did I not mention very tall, very beautiful Sean is a semi-professional football player? Yes, yes he is. His eight pack will confirm that for you. 

Paul is a good man. Probably the most frequent visitor to the Alex. Bald, chilled, and knows just when to wink at me to calm my franticness behind the bar. 

Ted is an old ass Aussie who will literally talk your ear off if given the opportunity. Therefor, if you're wise, conversation with him is kept to a minimal, answers remain one worded, and always looking busy in his presence is mandatory.  

Gary I see least of all, but just cute as a button. This proud, Irish bloke is determined to convince me to marry an Irish farmer. Not because he prides himself in the hardworking, fetching men his country produces. No, no. He wants me to marry him for his land. Divorce the poor potato grower and and take him for all he's worth. 

And finally, we get to Tommy. Oh Tommy. Another Irishman, but this one's lived in London for over forty years. Needless to say the man is archaic. And without teeth, which at the best of times makes it nearly impossible to understand what he's saying. Add several guinness to the mix and you simply nod and smile. And high five him. Tommy loves to high five. 

As for the younger portion of the fan club, well I can guarantee that in 20 years, they'll have effortlessly filled the shoes of Paul, Tommy, Gary, Ted, and Vinny. Although I wouldn't be surprised if Tommy still existed by then. How these men lead fully functioning lives is beyond me. Day in, day out, there they are. In the same corner of the bar, sipping their fosters and guinness, shouting my praises every time I pass by, which obviously bothers me very little. 

"CHELLLLSEA!!! Looking as gorgeous as ever today!"

"CHELLLLSEA!!! You are one well put together female."

And my favourite consists of the adjective "savage" to describe my incredibly sexy looks. 

On weekends, the gents will spend my entire shift between their designated bar corner and the doorway for frequent fag breaks. As the night progresses, they will usually begin to chant the Chelsea football team's theme, in my honour, of course. My hand will be kissed when I set down their guinness, attempts to dance with me will be had when reaching over to grab empty glassware, and so on and so forth. And like clockwork, by midnight, they have all switched to screwdrivers, perhaps with the idea that the vitamin C will help them cope with life come morning. But there is one of them in particular that stands out from the rest, and I will tell you why. 

If memory serves you well, you may recall a vivid fantasy I day dreamed about whilst commuting from one London airport to another. My very first hours here spent conjuring up the perfect love story about a wealthy stranger who frequents my bar and after weeks of admiring me, sweeps me off my feet and carries me to my happily ever after. Well, I wouldn't go as far as to say this dream became a reality, but the general premise (minus a few sheep, the Hugh Grant accent, and the overall romantic feel) in some form, actually came to be. Kind of. Meet Chris. Arguably the leader of the younger group of Irish regulars. Much like my fantasy, I knew he fancied me instantly. But unlike my fantasy, instead of telling me he was going to marry me one day, our first interaction consisted of him looking straight into my eyes, pointing at me and saying, "Shotgun." A tad less romantic than a girl would hope, but it did the job I suppose. Not a single member of the Dead Rabbits hit on me, let alone asked me out following that slightly infantile declaration. Every day after our meeting I would come to work and there he was. And every day he would ask when I was going to let him take me out. And every day my answer was, not gonna happen. If life has taught me anything, it's that a man who drinks more guinness than a human breathes air, is not one to fraternize with. One night, on an odd occasion where my shift ended before the day did, I walked out the front doors and there was Chris, alone at the door way, fag in hand. 

"Night Christopher"

"Hey." He grabbed my hand as I passed by and pulled me closer to him. "Let me take you out, already."

I looked at him and for the first time, actually saw how attractive he was. His eyes had me locked, and for a brief moment I could feel my mouth forming the word yes.

"Maybe."

"Maybe means no."

"Maybe. Goodnight Christopher." I pulled myself away from his suddenly very magnetic body, and walked away, grinning from ear to ear. 

The realization that I was actually attracted to Amsterdam Vallen, made turning him down more and more of a challenge. He made it impossible to avoid him, and those stupid green eyes of his. Always standing in the bar entrance so I was forced to brush passed him every time I collected glassware, which if you read any of my cleaning duties, you'd know how very often this was. But I stood strong. In no way was I going to let history repeat itself. Falling for a man who already has a life long romance with a pint of beer is a mistake you only make once. 

I placed Christopher's guinness on the bar, actively averting eye contact. He grabbed my hand. 

"Chelsea. Just tell me you'll go out with me." Failing miserably, I stared into those stupid green eyes. That stupid Irish accent, and his stupid ginger beard didn't help things either. The answer is no, Chelsea. Just say no. Those stupid green eyes. Why did he have to stand so close to me? And smell so fantastic. Damn it. I mean really, who said anything about falling? One date wasn't going to have me weak at the knees, contemplating the number of sheep we were going to have on our quaint little Irish farm, with our Irish cottage surrounded by our stone wall, on a hill in the countryside. Absolutely not. So what was the harm in one date? There wasn't any. There was, actually. A lot of harm. What if the date went terribly? He's at the bar more than I am. He's practically a piece of the furniture. The awkwardness that would surely ensue if things went awry. And the talk. Good god, the talk. This bar is like high school. I would never hear the end of it, once everyone caught wind of our extra curricular activities. No, this was nothing but a bad idea. 

"Ok."

"…What? Really?"

I was just as surprised as Chris, if not more.

"Ok. Let's do it. I will go on a date with you."

"….Really?"

"Don't make me change my mind." I turned away, completely bewildered, but beaming madly. 

Oh, Chelsea. Such a fool. 

Can't Buy Me Love... But Food is a Good Start.

Sunday March 9/2014

Sunday March 2nd. The 86th annual Academy Awards. Also known as the Oscars. Also known as one of the most important days of the year. And in this particular case, also also known as the premier of Wes Anderson's latest film, The Grand Budapest Hotel at the Clapham Picture house (Dan's cinema).  And what an enchanted night it was. Now because the Oscars are live, us lucky folk over here in the UK have to wait until 1:30am for the magic to begin, which actually timed perfectly with our attendance to said Wes Anderson premier. This theatre goes all out when it comes to previews of this stature. The place was decorated top to bottom to resemble the hotel, as were the staff  (George in particular). Instead of movie tickets, you received room keys from the "receptionist". Free whiskey gingers were served upon entering and each seat had a tiny box of "Mendl's chocolates" awaiting you (none of this will make sense if you haven't seen the film. I suggest you go do it, now). Christie and I were dressed in our finest vintage attire. Let it be said, during my incredibly stressful packing experience, I somehow thought it absolutely necessary to pack my vintage 1920's red and white dress, yet completely unnecessary to pack more than two pairs of pants. Well, my sense of logic has just been warranted. An amazing film, it was. Wes never disappoints. But the fun was only just beginning. Dan had planned an Oscar party (another reason I can't help but love this man). Ferrero Roche, espresso martinis, wine, dips and chips, strawberries and chocolate mousse, and my high hopes that Leonardo DiCaprio would finally go home with a naked little gold man (this hope comes in close second to one that includes him bringing home a naked little me). Alas, my dreams were shattered (on both accounts), but the incredible company and overall amazing night, definitely eased the blow. It was 5:00am when 12 Years a Slave accepted best film, and those that weren't already passed out, were drunk enough that they should have been. Christie and I crawled our way into bed with just enough time to shut our eyes before the sun came up. Undoubtably, but not surprisingly, the best Oscar night I've ever experienced.

Needless to say, Monday was a complete right off. I'm not even confident I left the comforts of my bed, except perhaps to satisfy my peanut butter cravings here and there. 

But then came Tuesday. Tuesday being the day I decided to take a ballet class. Pineapple Studios in Covent Garden,  London's most famous drop in dance centre, and most likely my second home for the next two years. Having not only not danced for three weeks, but boycotted any form of physical activity whatsoever (apart from stumbling from pub to pub, and the occasional skipping gleefully through Venn Street Market on the hunt for maple bacon brownies), I was contemplating taking an intermediate level class as my first so not to run the risk of wanting to slit my wrists and slowly bleed out over the advanced one. But upon realizing that this class was going to cost me twenty canadian dollars, I resolved to pull up my big girl pants (I mean that literally, I'm fat now, remember) and risk the challenge and potential suicidal thoughts. If the fact that I practically passed out climbing the stairs to the 11th studio and actually had to stop to catch my breath at the top didn't make me want to reach for a razor blade, the forty other ninety pound primas with their legs over their heads certainly did the trick. In typical Chelsea fashion, I found a small area in the corner of the studio where every fellow dancer was in prime judging view, and then I began. With my true agenda hidden by my own stretching, I scanned the room, picking through the herd of hip loosening, leg swinging, bent over classmates, separating the possibly weak from the overly intimidating. But of course, the ratio of those that I could take, and those that made me want to give up on life was confidence crushing. Everyone looked like they belonged in a ballet company, or had once been before they became ancient or injured. Despite my heightened awareness of just how fat I actually looked in a bodysuit and tights (we're talking stuffed sausage. Bratworst material), I tried not to let these skinny bitches intimidate me. I had just done my Advanced 2 exam, for God's sake. Fuck them. I got this. And if need be, I could just sit on them and that'd be that. The class began and two things happened: the class was ridiculously easy, and the bitches were shit. In fairness, I had been warned that the calibre of dance over here was much lower, but I wasn't going to believe it until I saw it for myself. I saw it. I believe it. But I do this to myself in every single class I ever take. Scout out and judge everyone based on their appearance as to who was going to make me feel like the shittiest of dancers, and who I was going to make feel even shittier. You'd think I'd know better by now, but alas, I am quite dense. Ballerina resemblances aside, I doubt 3 quarters of this class would even pass their Advanced 2. But this didn't make me feel better. This made me never want to take that class again. Half the point of taking class is standing beside that person that makes you feel like total shit, so you work that much harder (and cry that much longer upon finishing). I've been doing ballet privates for 6 months. I crave that shitty feeling like a submissive craves a cracking whip. As I exited Pineapple, I grabbed a schedule and spent the tube ride home circling every other advanced class at my disposal… and maybe one or two advanced/professional. Baby steps. 

Cut to Friday. Friday being date day with very tall, very beautiful Sean. After speaking in great length about the impending day with Angela, I learned that the night we met, very tall, very beautiful Sean had asked her what he should do for our date in order to impress me. Her reply was nothing short of predictable. "Feed it and it will be happy"Yes, "it". So that is exactly what he planned to do. Three days before, I received a text asking me if I like steak. I laughed. Silly boy, you have so much to learn about Chelsea and her unwavering love of all and everything food. It was settled then that he'd be taking me to Gaucho. Naturally, I immediately looked up the restaurant online, and even more immediately, almost swallowed my tongue. Gaucho. One of the finest Argentinian steak houses in London. Very upscale, and VERY expensive. I went straight to the menu with the idea that I could properly prepare and look incredibly knowledgeable and nonchalant when ordering. Half way through the appetizers I knew this would be impossible. I couldn't even pronounce, let alone understand what half these things were. Shrimp Causita. Causita. Is that even a food? And the description is a joke. Like the restaurant is mocking you. If you don't know what this is, you don't deserve to eat it so good luck figuring it out. Shrimp Causita: Aji amarillo puree, leche de tigre, and a quails egg. First of all, no where in the description is there even a reference to shrimp, or what the hell causita even is. Second of all, it sounds more like a list of zoo animals, than a starter. Shrimp Causita: whipped armadillo, the milk of a french tiger, and a very small bird's egg. All for the bargain price of twenty Canadian dollars. Mmmm, sounds deliciously fulfilling. I'm fucked. Accepting the fact that I was doomed to stupidity concerning the menu, I opted to focus my energy on looking flawlessly fabulous and remarkably classy. Enough so, that my lack of intelligence and general overall class, would hopefully go unnoticed. One swift call to Angela, and we were on a mission (and an embarrassingly low budget) to find my missing class in the form of a dress. Thank Jesus for H&M, and Angela's straight forward "Oh God no, that hideous. Take it off now." approach. We were in and out and with a dress in no time, and only thirty pounds lighter in pocket. Bring it "Churrasco de Lomo". You're nothing but a slab of meat with a silly little name. 

….. Or at least I think that's what I ordered. 

Friday night, and I'm looking stunning. Olive green, sleek, long sleeve, knee length, clingy in all the right places dress, with a subtle mesh back and mesh side cut outs. The perfect amount of class, with just a hint of traditional slutty Chelsea. Nude Fluvog pumps, barely there gold accessories, and my token pin straight centre part hair. So very Jennifer Aniston of me. A quick walk to the tube, was all that kept my class and I from what was sure to be the perfect evening. But no. Not the case. It was an oddly warm evening that night and if you know anything about me, you know I sweat. I sweat so much so, that breathing too heavily could, and most likely would, induce perspiration. So inevitably this "quick walk", not to mention the wee bit of nerves surrounding the evening, left me with a beaded brow and noticeably darker olive green armpits. Shit. Shit, bugger, piss, shit, wank. This simply would not do. I needed to arrive flawless, not like I had come from a marathon… or the showers after said marathon. I was desperate and on a serious time crunch. I had already factored a "fashionably late" arrival into my travel time. Anything later would just be rude. But speeding up my walk would only mean more sweat. And the tube certainly wasn't going to cool me off. A confined space, loaded with people, and minimum air circulation. No. The cinema was my only hope, and conveniently directly across from the tube station. I ran into a cubical, pulled my hair off my back and started door fanning, tissue dabbing, and airing out my unforgiving, suddenly less classy, olive green dress. A final visit to the blowdryer for my damp pits, a touch up of lipstick, and crisis averted. I wouldn't be exaggerating if I said it took me 10 minutes to walk 10 feet to the tube station from the cinema, considering how consciously slow I was now walking, determined to prevent so much as a morsel of sweat to appear. Thirty minutes late. Way to go, Chels. Whatever, call it build up of anticipation. I managed to regain my flawless arrival. Being late was a small price to pay, and worth every pence. Pent? Is there a singular? And it's a good thing too because very tall, very beautiful Sean looked very stunning. The man can dress, I'll give him that. And he can pull off a scarf. Anyone can tell you that unless you're Chuck Bass, that takes skill. He walked me through the streets of downtown, to a place called The Folly for a pre dinner drink. This place was adorable, or what I could see of it anyway. It was absolutely packed, which is saying a lot because it was gigantic. Very tall, very beautiful Sean took my hand and led me through the hoards of people towards wine. The full capacity forced us rather close to each other as we stood sipping and chatting, which was more than ok with me. He smelled divine. Our reservation time was approaching, yes he made a reservation, very impressive. We walked again down the streets, but this time he held my hand, and it didn't feel strange, which was strange. Through an alley way, down some stairs, and we had arrived. Gaucho. Dark, trendy and underground, the place was filled with small tables, fancy people that occupied them, and cow print. Cow print everything. A tad bit odd, but fitting I suppose, for an establishment that prides themselves on serving said animal. We were told the specials by an authentic Argentinean waitress, and began with the featured house cocktail, which was basically sugar, with a hint of grapefruit in a champagne saucer glass. The saucer glass made me feel fancy though, so that's cool. Who even uses those these days? So very Great Gatsby chic. Basking in my moment of fancy saucers, in a fancy steak house, with my fancy dress, sitting across from my fancy escort, I almost forgot to feel a great sense of anxiety at the arrival of the dreaded menu. To my relief, very tall, very beautiful Sean was just as daft in translating what was apparently food choices in front of us. We laughed awkwardly, and tried to decide on an item that might as well have been written in braille. 

"Perhaps we should start small. Pick a wine, maybe?"

"Good call. Which would you prefer?"

"Red I suppose, if we're having beef. That's what you do, is it not?"

"Yup, absolutely." That at least I know. "Any kind you care for?"

"I'm really not much of a wine drinker so I will try anything."

Not much of a wine drinker. Ok, so he must be a beer man. Typical, and acceptable. This is fine. Nope, not that either. The man couldn't choose a beer if a gun was pointed at his temple. Rum and coke. The man drinks rum and coke. This bothered me a great deal. Rum and coke is how you lose your alcohol virginity. It's what you bring to a frat party. What girls who forget to put on pants before going clubbing on a thursday order-- until they realize they're getting fat and turn to gin and soda with lime. Rum and coke. Minus one point. 

"Alright then, how about we just get our server to recommend something?" 

"Great, make it a bottle."

Plus one point. 

The wine could have easily been the best wine I'd ever tasted, which wasn't hard to see when I got up to go to the "toilet" (that's what they call it here- don't even think about asking for the washroom) and realized my gulping it like grape juice had me a little tipsy. 

When I returned, authentic Argentinian approached with a chopping board full of raw cuts of meat. Quite hilarious really, as she explained the cuts and marinades in a very professional and knowledgable format, the carcass refused to behave the same way, sliding gradually further and further down the board. Please let one flop onto our table, with a repulsive smacking sound. How delightfully embarrassing would that be for her? In fairness though, this did make my decision making much easier. I am definitely a visual learner. Don't ask me what I ordered. All I can say is that if food orgasms are actually a thing, I climaxed. Instantly. I have never experienced steak like that. I pity other steaks and their meaningless existence. But then again, I'd never had a steak worth more than a pair of my shoes. 

We talked, we laughed, we gazed longingly into each other's equally mesmerizing eyes (his are blue. Of course they're blue) and before we knew it, three hours had passed. Three hours. Incredible. The bill arrived and my curiosity couldn't help but stealthily eye the total. Something like 200 pounds…. 400 dollars. Yah….Yes. Sweet Jesus. 

Next on the agenda was Sushi Samba! Very tall, very beautiful Sean informed me as we made our way, once again, through the streets of London that this place was the main reason he wanted to take me to this part of town. A glass elevator took us to the top floor of what had to be the tallest building this little country bumpkin had ever seen. A sushi bar, yes, but also a very fancy and well established cocktail bar. I have no idea what he ordered me but it was equally as fancy as the rest of the evening. He guided me up the stairs and out onto the roof top patio, the reason behind him taking me here. I stepped outside and there was London. All of it, as far as the eye could see, and in every direction. Lights flashing and the streets buzzing below, but the skyline so still and calm, and endless. This may just make up for the rum and coke debacle.

Needless to say, this date was obviously a great success. Will most likely remain in my top five best dates of all time. Or at least it will until I meet Hugh Grant or Jude Law. Pretty confident they'd outrank. Clive Owen definitely would. That man's a true gentleman, I'm sure. But until then, very tall, very beautiful Sean will be granted a second date. The first man to accomplish this in the seven months of my single status. So long as he doesn't order a rum and coke. 

Here Comes the Sun

Thursday March 6/2014

My love affair with this city grows ever stronger as each day seems to pass by more quickly than the last. A week into March already, and I feel like if I so much as blink, two years will have come and gone and my heart will be breaking as I am forcibly removed from this enchanted country by several armed men, and perhaps one butch female looking one. 

Spring is popping up all over London. Cherry blossoms frame the streets, the wind has calmed and the days are longer and warmer. Sweaters and coats are gradually disappearing allowing the sun to shine on pale, untouched, winter skin. Morning after morning (let's be honest, afternoon after afternoon) I am awoken by the sun filling my quaint third floor room and I'm… happy. It's the strangest thing. Every morning I wake up feeling excited, fresh, eager. I keep my room clean, I do the dishes… voluntarily. I fold my clothes and brush my teeth, like TWICE a day. I read books in cafes, and grocery shop for things like bananas and chorizo sausage. I'm a grown up. Living in London. At this point, I don't know which sounds more unbelievable. Whatever it is, there is something about being here that just makes me feel good. Like for the first time in my life my head's actually been screwed on properly. And things are just happening, the way they should, when they should. I got a job, the first and only I applied for. I saw The Alexandra pub while out on one of my daily strolls and thought, Yup. I'm going to work there. Two days later I walked in with my resume and walked out employed. And for some reason I just knew it would be that simple. I didn't even bother to print off more than one resume. I had no intention of hitting the pavement, harassing pub after pub for employment. It was going to happen. Just like that. One pub, one minute interview, done. 

And friends. I'm making friends. In the almost 25 years of my existence, I have never cared to make friends, to put effort into people who weren't already a part of my life. I can say without having to think twice, that within the past 4 years I have made 2 solid friends. And those two friends started as co-workers. People I had to see everyday regardless of whether I liked them or not. Lucky for me, they're the shit so it was easy to befriend them. But that's exactly my point. I hate everyone. I wouldn't be caught dead going out of my way to befriend a complete stranger. My god, the effort. Yet here I am, a social butterfly, fresh from the cocoon, who recently accepted an invite to attend a guy's band gig at some random venue in SoHo because we got to talking at The Crate the other night and he seemed tolerable. His name is Isaac. Isaac was one of the many bartenders who forced wine teeth bitch's fists off my face that fine evening. Isaac is in a two man band called Two Cartoons. I ended up making friends with Isaac and making out with Cartoon number two. A very productive evening I would say. Then there's Elizabeth, a girl I met conveniently while crushing on an adorable Aussie I had been eyeing all night at the BelleVue… the Aussie she happened to be currently sleeping with, no less. We laughed, and her response to me drooling over her mate was something along the lines of, Why wouldn't you? Look at him. You might as well just come home with us tonight. And bam. (No I didn't have a threesome with Elizabeth and hot Aussie, but I'll  be damned if I say I didn't consider it). No, the bam is more of a, I'm now a guest at her birthday party next week, and unlike Canadian Chelsea, who would sooner don a pair of sweats and spend the night with Ben and Jerry's and Jimmy Fallon reruns, British Chelsea will actually be attending… with bells on. There are also the friends I have been making via my roommate. Friends that greet me at the movie theatre I frequent almost daily (Dan the Man manages the cinema down the street so I get the honour of free admission, which basically makes my life complete). George gives me hugs from behind the counter and suddenly I'm a local. The other night in fact, I was out with Angela in Clapham for our first official London pub crawl experience and wouldn't you know, we run into my friend Christie at our first destination. She greets me with a giant hug and once again, I'm a local. No big deal. 

But establishing evidential proof of local status via friend bumping-inage wasn't the only brag worthy development from that pub crawl evening. No, no. Definitely not. Allow me to paint you a picture…

The night is getting closer to morning. With each new pub/club/bar proving more obnoxious than the previous, a certain "local foreigner" is most likely to blow a fuse if one more juiced up, roid infested rugby player offers to "make her a cup of tea" as sexual innuendo for "let's go fuck in a bathroom or a broom closet". And with that charming invitation, Angela and I leave the current man cave of a bar with the intention of giving up and heading home with a bottle of wine, and what's left of our faith in the male human species. However, instead of turning off down the narrow, cobble stone street towards home and wine, we decided to brave one last bar that looked a tad less obnoxious than the rest. We walk in, do a quick lap around, and decide we were mistaken and head right back for the exit, defeated, exhausted, and sorely disappointed by the lack of proper beautiful british men the evening presented. As we push our way through the sea of swaying drunken wankers, Angela stops suddenly and looks up (she has to do this a lot, she's quite small). "Him." She says to me. I follow her gaze up to a man. A very beautiful man. A very tall, very beautiful man. He is standing by the doorway with another man (this man will eventually tell me his name is Gary) and they are now staring at me, maybe 10 feet between us. Gary is nudging very tall, very beautiful man and nodding in my direction, saying something that I only assume is regarding me. They continue to talk about me while I stand there confused and intrigued, but unable to tare my eyes away from very tall, very beautiful man. Finally Angela breaks my trance and says something like, if you don't make a move on this guy we're going home. Move it or lose it. (I love her motivational talks, so comforting) So I move it, right over to the doorway where the men stand, our eyes still focused on each other. 

"So, were you just planning to stand here and talk about me, or were one of you going to find the balls to come over and actually talk TO me?" 

I may have caught them off guard with that one because they both just stood there, these dumbfounded expressions on their faces, followed by strange, slightly awkward laughter. Gary finally says, "I was actually just telling my friend, Sean here that you look like you came from the Olympics." His name is Sean. Very tall, very beautiful man has a name. Sean. When I realize that I have no idea how long I've been staring at this face that now has a name, I force myself to take my eyes off Sean's ridiculously perfect jaw structure and focus on whether I should take Gary's opening line as a compliment or… no I really have no idea what that was. But now based on my accent, I must have been participating in ice hockey at the Olympics, bla bla bla, Sean's face, bla bla bla. Ok, enough Gary. No time to waste. I tell Sean my friend and I were actually just about to leave, and he asks if he buys me a drink will I stay? Uh ya duh. 

"Well, I guess I could." Way to play it cool, Chels. Two highballs and three hours later, we've shut down two bars, neither of which I could describe since my face was attached to his more than it wasn't. We danced, we talked, we swapped saliva. It was magical. And then it was time to go. But instead of the standard, come home with me discussion, he did something so shocking, and staggeringly unexpected. He asked if he could take me on a date on Friday. I mean maybe romance really is dead because this caught me entirely off guard. 

"Soooo… you don't want to come home with me tonight?"

He begins to blush, and smiles. "I'm really looking forward to our date on Friday."

"Mmhm, ya. So, again. You don't want to come home with me tonight…" I'm confused. 

Again, he smiles. 

"What man wouldn't want to go home with you? But I am just really looking forward to our date on Friday."

Is this for real? Did I actually just stumble upon one of the world's most endangered species, the rare and incredibly uncommon "gentleman"? And here I thought courtship had gone extinct, when directly in front of me is a man who wants to date me. Not only date me, but date me before he sleeps with me. I was speechless. But somehow managed to pick my jaw up off the floor and wipe the stunned expression from my face in enough time to give him my number and still leave him with a flawless goodbye. A soft kiss, a half smile, and just a touch of a strut since I was pretty confident he was watching me walk away. 

The next morning I awoke to a text from very tall, very beautiful Sean. 

There may be more in the London air than just Spring.