Hello, Goodbye

Thursday June 26th/2014

So it turns out I have a life. I am a very important person with a very full agenda. Little time to document my whirlwind of an existence. I may also be a tad full of bullshit and just haven't gotten around to writing. But much has happened over the last month, some significant, a lot insignificant. I've gone part time at the unnamed bar. Finally freed myself from the all consuming black hole, though my body is still struggling to return to normal human hours and lifestyle. I still find myself dinner hungry at 10pm, wanting to sleep until 1pm, and struggling to fall asleep before the sun comes up. I started teaching ballet for a school in Westferry, a place no one seems to have heard of, and even I am starting to believe it may be all in my mind. It feels good to be back in a studio, not so good to be back in front of floor to ceiling mirrors. But I'm coping. And eating less carbs. Apart from that, I've managed to actually live, explore, and enjoy myself, which was next to impossible when every waking moment was previously being spent pulling pints and cleaning up vomit. Turns out there is a world outside of Clapham. Who knew? A world of poorly acted plays (1984 was shit), and mediocre modern performances (Akram Khan at Sadler's Wells was meh), and tacky Brixton markets littered with cheap crap, and delightful pubs that don't share the Clapham SW4 postcode, and restaurants that serve grilled banana nutella brioche sandwiches (any restaurant really, that isn't the unnamed bar's upstairs pizza kitchen). Days spent lying under the sun in the common, reading and accumulating melanoma. Yoga classes, and random adventures to places like London Bridge, and Waterloo where the day is perfectly wasted on aimless wandering. Hours of typing and sipping rose in beer gardens and old pubs. Trips to the grocery store for food that doesn't have to be cooked in the microwave. Ok that last one was a lie. The food is still microwaved. But I can take my time in Sainsbury's again! Wander the isles, and cherish the length at which I get to spend gazing at what makes me happiest; food. All of these things have me falling head over heels back in love with the city I had almost forgotten all about. I'm living in London. I'm living. In London. 

I'll tell you who isn't living in London. Angela and the triple B's. May was coming to an end, which meant the saddest day in my UK history thus far, had arrived: The goodbye sleep over. I spent the whole week dreading my final trip to The Iron Works, yet eager to see my suto family and soak in as much of them as possible before they took their permanent leave to the Emerald Isle. I got off the overground at Hackney Wick and changed my Iphone playlist from Play this to Depressing. (I'm one who, when emotional, needs to feel completely consumed by it. If I'm depressed, I will relish the feeling, indulge in every ounce of it. Hence the playlist choice, and the fact that I even have a playlist entitled, Depressing.) The walk through Hackney was a strange one. I wasn't sure how to feel. For the most part I just felt nostalgic. This was where I started. Where my London life began. This road was the first place I didn't get lost on. That graffiti, on that brick wall was what kept me from turning right, not left at the 'please don't feed the hipsters', thus aiding in my not getting lost. The cafe that sells the worst espresso I've tasted in London, but would always get my business solely because it's called Muff. The mattress that still sat, nudged in a tree. A tree that was vacant the first night I walked past it, occupied the next. I stopped. That mattress has been in that tree as long as I've been in London. I remembered coming home to Bernie and Bryan's after seeing it, telling them if all else fails and I couldn't find a place to live, I could always live in the tree down the block. And quite comfortably too. The fact that the mattress was still there four months later, and the irony that I was now actually homeless was incredible. It was like some kind of abstract metaphor that I couldn't quite put into words. I kept walking, chuckling to myself as Damien Rice serenaded my slow stroll down memory lane. I stopped again, this time outside the door of The Crate. Hackney's brewery and waterside pub, but to me, the scene of which my one and only "bar fight" broke out. Another chuckle, a moment to bask, then on I went. When I arrived at the gates of 50 Dace Road, I looked for a long time at the Iron Works sign. This was it. The last time I'd stand here. The last time I'd use my key. I wasn't sad. It was just strange. I entered the flat, surprised at the lack of welcome. Usually Angela is propped on the sofa, or in the kitchen trying not to burn Bobby's formula, and without having to turn my way, shouts a big, "Helllooo!". But there was no hello. No Angela. Just boxes. Empty space and boxes. I set my keys on the table and stood in the middle of the room. Alone. I remembered the first time I stood in this spot and I cried. Ya, ok. I cry a lot. Shut up. It takes a real man to cry. I swallowed my man tears and called Bernie. They were at the Britannia. Of course they were. Of course our last night as Londoners together would be spent in the first pub we ever all hung out in. I believe they call this 'coming full circle'. I call it bullshit. But I tend to get angry when I'm sad so it's understandable. 

The entire family had just got over a spurt of some stomach virus (the same virus they would leave for me as a parting gift) and had finally regained the ability to keep food down, but more importantly booze. When I met them at their table, Bobby donned the biggest grin, as he usually does when I'm around. Bernie said he hadn't cracked a smile in days, but enter Chelsea and he's beaming like a crushing school boy. Don't you dare make me cry, Bobby. I won't have it. Keep it together Chelsea. And for the rest of the evening, all my energy would be spent on exactly that; keeping it together. I remember very little after leaving the Britannia. Possibly because of the abundance of farewell liquor; partially a subconscious block from my memory due to it being one of the saddest nights in British history. But the next morning I woke hung to the tits, so safe to say it was more the liquor than the subconscious denial. Bryan offered me a ride to the tube but I declined. I told him I didn't trust his Kiwi ass with my Canadian one on his scooter, but really, I knew the minute I left their front door I'd be a blubbering mess. To cry in general is gross, but to cry on a scooter is just embarrassing. I also just really wanted to indulge in my final walk through the trendy trashy Hackney that stole my heart some months ago. I knew as I walked towards the tube, that I was walking towards another family I had created all on my own. A completely dysfunctional collaboration of the craziest fuckers in Clapham. My crazy fuckers. I knew I wasn't going to be left alone, and that I was going to be more than ok. But I was still walking away from my people. Instead of feeling sad, I felt blessed. I have people. I am a million miles away from home yet I have made connections with people strong enough to make my heart sink when they are no longer at arms length. I can feel blessed that even though a part of my life here in London has moved on, I am still walking towards a community of people that are my people. My home. 

And as it always does, life went on. Chris and I, after over two months of seeing each other, had our second date. The Royal Opera house. Yes, I popped stupid ginger beard's ballet cherry. And he didn't go kicking and screaming either. My brother had been working with The Royal Ballet on a show called Draft Works. A compilation of new, and up and coming choreographers who had been given the opportunity to set pieces on members of the company. I had requested a ticket, and Chris had requested I get two, on the condition that he would, without argument, be wearing his Nike Air Max's to the opera house. None of this fancy dress shoe bullshit. The night of the show arrived and I looked good, but the Irishman looked better. Grey dress pants, black dress shirt, that stupid ginger beard, and no Nike's. Damn. I don't think I've ever been caught checking out a man clothed whom I've already seen naked, so much in my life. The show was good, but let's be honest, when the view next to you has you wiping drool from your face, focusing on the stage proves a bit challenging. I'm also lying. The show wasn't that great. But I'm pretending to not be such a judgemental cunt. Dance over here is weird. And by weird, I mean mostly bad. But our second date was everything good. I think I have found my other half. And I don't mean the ultra cheesy, horribly cliched "you complete me" other half. It's like we just fit. It works. Despite all my tireless efforts to hang on to my single status, we are good together. And I know it. I think I always knew it. And so came the inevitable. When you put more effort into trying to ward off a relationship than you do actually tending to it, yet it continues to grow-- quite seamlessly in fact-- at some point you just have to let go, give in, and realize that some things are just out of your control. The best things usually are. Timing is always shit. When you don't want something, it comes at you with full force. I spent so much time opposing that force that I couldn't be bothered to see it was everything I ever wanted. With every relationship you leave, you take with you a better knowledge of who you are and what you want. Having spent the last year completely consumed with my single self and my wants and my needs, I 

a) never wanted to be in a relationship again, and 

b) knew that that was an utter lie, and if I did finally succumb to sharing my life with someone, I'd know exactly how I'd want that life shared and wouldn't change that for anyone.

It took me a long time to realize it, and even longer to admit it, but with Chris, the fear of my wants being compromised, or the idea of losing myself is non-existent. And so, one cloudy Saturday evening, I told him I wanted to be his girlfriend. The white flag had been waved. I am still me. I just have the most handsome, burley, imperfectly perfect Irishman at my side to enjoy everything I would already enjoy as a single female. It just is exactly what it is. Without any of that expectation I loath, and so often mention. We're a team. A team that picks each other's noses, and makes sure we're in a room full of friends when we mention the other person farted in their sleep. A team that can spend an entire day together doing absolutely nothing and wish that day would never end. A team that takes its teammate to Mcdonalds and while she's ordering, sets two lit candles oozing from ketchup cups, on the table to surprise her with a "romantic dinner". A team that can incessantly mock and insult each other's stupid accents to no end, and find a questionable amount of pleasure in it. Or when one knows he's in the doghouse and leaves an entire corner store worth of junk food with the bouncer of his teammates bar as an apology. A team that fights like animals in an indian restaurant while still dishing out each other's plates and telling them to try the aloo tika because they'd really like it. Or every time the teammate leaves to buy fags, he returns with a surprise for the other teammate-- sometimes drunk enough to forget he bought said surprise and wakes up in the morning with a melted chocolate bar in his pocket. A team that can laugh for hours, fight for days, drink like fish, and just be. I mean, I'm not one to brag or anything-- I am. I am one to brag-- but one could say I've found gold. A pot of gold? Oh yes, dating an Irishman is just too much funny. I'm funny.

I still don't know if I believe in fate, or universal influence. But the way things happen in this city, it becomes harder and harder to think otherwise. The other day a good friend of mine told me she had been meaning to tell me that she's noticed just how happy I've been lately. 

"I've seen you be kicked down so many times. I thought a while back, about the day you walked into the (unnamed) bar, completely crushed and at such a low. For weeks now, you've just been so… happy. You've taken so many blows since you got here. It's nice to think that maybe all that has finally passed."

And maybe it has. Maybe I've finally proven to this city that I belong here. I've done my time. My probation period is over. And I'm here to stay. Happily. 

Besame Mucho

Thursday May 22nd/2014

Not so long ago,  a friend of mine from back home, a very dear friend, one might call her my other half, sent a message informing me she was going to Barcelona, and demanded that I meet her there. End of discussion. So I did. A steep forty quid later, curtesy of RyanAir, and my flights were booked. RyanAir, notorious for its ridiculously cheap flights, but even more so infamous for it's pocket gouging hidden fees, horrendously tight quarters, and overall shitty experience. They marvel you with cheap tickets, then make up for it by slamming you with every fee unimaginable. £40 for a round trip ticket to Spain. Oh, but you're paying with a credit card? £15 payment fee. You want to check one suitcase? £75 checked baggage fee. Did you not remember to check in online 2 days prior to your boarding date? Sorry, that's another £75 charge because we're too lazy to do it for you. In the event that we crash over water, would you be requesting a personal floatation device? Another £50. Oh and we require a minor deposit of your first born child if you're planning to use the oxygen provided on the aircraft. I may have elaborated slightly near the end there, but not by much. Normally, I wouldn't think twice about paying an extra £75 if it meant I would have all of my beloved clothes (and shoes) accompanying me to Spanish paradise, but seeings that I am now a wayfaring gypsy, the thought of paying more for a suitcase than my bloody ticket made me gag. Also the fact that my fat ass can't physically fit into any of my summer clothes (seriously, I tried-- many a time) made filling even a measly carry-on a challenge. So yes, Chelsea Elise Beamish, set off on a four day vacation to Barcelona with nothing more than her over the shoulder dance bag filled with, and I kid you not, 2 pairs of shoes. Not even shoes. FLIP FLOPS. Who am I, you ask? I couldn't even tell you. I am both disgusted and incredibly impressed with myself all at once. It's a confusing place to be in. I'm not sure what to think of it all. So I won't.

I managed to get myself safely, and efficiently to the Stansted airport (another impressive, yet incredibly unbelievable feat for myself) and arrived in Barcelona where I exchanged a few pounds for euros, and revelled in the fact that my pocket got heavier, not lighter (it feels good to not be Canadian right now). I splurged on a few figure forgiving summer pieces, 3 sizes bigger than they should be and swore to myself I would burn them the minute I returned to the UK, then hopped in a cab, destined for The Rey Juan Carlos Hotel. The cab driver was playing Van Morrison. I saw this as a good omen. My arrival was met by a super skinny, crazy ass bitch, jumping up and down, flailing her arms, and yelling "Chesty!!!". Enter my other half, Cristina Graziano. Naturally, I returned the welcome by sticking my head out the window, squirmy violently behind my seatbelt, and yelling back loud enough to frighten my Van Morrison loving cabbie. We were locked in an embrace before the taxi man had a chance to put his trusted taxi into park. A tad less explosive and jarring hug for her parents, a second dedicated to the shock felt over my lack of luggage, a quick tour of our swanky digs, then it was off to admire designer wedding gowns. Cristina and her family had already been in Barcelona for 5 days for a Bridal event to purchase gowns for the Bridal store they own back home. Cristina, knowing that my appreciation and slight obsession with beautifully crafted designer everything matched hers exactly, made sure I was able to marvel in the magic that was in its final day on display. And magic it was. Having worked at their bridal store for six months prior to moving, my ideas of weddings and marriage took a dramatic turn from castles and ball gowns, to city hall, jeans, and a stunning pair of shoes. Fuck weddings. Bride bitches be cray. But after 5 seconds of standing in front of a tiered, vintage lace, a-line Ellie Saab gown with a cathedral length veil, I was seeing stars… and castles. Faith restored. I, Chelsea Beamish, will get married in a castle. Wearing vintage lace, and a stunning pair of shoes. 

Gazing at gown, after gown, appreciation turns quickly to desire, which sooner becomes envy, and envy can work up an appetite like no other. It was time for my first ever authentic tapas experience in Spain. We cabbed to an area outside of the city centre and found ourselves a quaint little restaurant that upon our arrival, clearly evacuated the entire place on account of our VIP status, and need for private dining. In other words, the place was empty. Never a good sign, according to Cristina's father. The food was good, nothing worth professing my undying love over, but it was good. The asparagus was scrumptious. The wine, however, was another story. Considering I was at a table full of Italians, the fact that I was the only one wanting to drink was a tad alarming, but at this point not surprising. I ordered a glass of cougar juice, or what they call 'rose' in these parts, and was told they only serve wine by the bottle. While I may be a borderline alcoholic, I hold quite tightly to the "borderline" adjective. To consume an entire bottle to myself over an innocent dinner with family friends would surely blow my 'borderline' cover. 

"You sure you don't do wine by the glass?"

"It's four euro."

"A glass is?!?"

"A bottle."

"I'm sorry, what was that now?"

"A bottle, 4 euro."

I turn to Cristina, two blank expressions meeting each other. In a low tone I ask her, 

"We are in a restaurant, are we not?"

"Ya, dude."

"And he did just say a bottle of wine is four euro, did he not?"

"Ya, dude. Get the wine."

Cristina turns to the waiter, 

"Can she take the bottle home with her if she doesn't finish it?"

"Of course, Seniorita." (I'm not even sure he said Seniorita, but obviously I'm going to make this trip sounds as authentic as possible. 

"She'll get the bottle."

Oh, Cristina. She doesn't know yet that at one point, yes, Chelsea would have asked the very same question. But UK Chelsea knows there isn't a hope in hell that so much as a drop of rose will be left in that bottle by the time the check arrives. But she's asked, so the intention is there, which means I can keep my 'borderline alcoholic' title. 

"I'll get the bottle, gracias."

"Denada"

…The bottle lasted. There is a God, and that God is full of sober miracles. 

"We'll have another bottle, to go please." Cristina requests, as the waiter clears our plates. She's starting to get it. Good girl. 

After dinner, we walked to a corner store for ice cream mars bars. An item which, until now, I did not know was unavailable in Canada. Note to self: eat as many of these as humanly possible in the next twenty months. We grabbed enough junk food to feed and diagnose every starving child in Africa with Diabetes, then headed back to the hotel. It was too late to explore the city, and after seeing the price of cocktails at the restaurant bar, we decided to spend our first night together in Barcelona low key, and classy: Two take away bottles of restaurant wine, two overstuffed bags of trans fats, and two Canadians occupying a couple of hidden lounge chairs in the lobby of Rey Juan Carlos. Every intention of getting wasted, or sugar high, whichever came first. As our four euro bottles found their way closer and closer to empty, our months of gossip and catch up also did the same. We were now up to date with each other lives. And drunk. An impromptu visit from a group of uninvited, very drunk, very Mexican, wannabe Formula One drivers convinced us it was time to call it a night. And so we did. We both went to sleep, happy to be reunited, and even happier to have narrowly averted a mexican gang rape. 

The next morning, I awoke to grey. How fitting. Chelsea comes to Spain and it rains. I choose to believe that much like me, the Spanish sun doesn't like to rise before noon, and I don my fat kid summer romper along with a heavily knitted winter jumper (that's british for sweater) just incase my theory proves incorrect. 

We slept through continental breakfast (point one for the lost skinny kid) and headed off to catch the HoHo (hop on hop off tour bus). We spent the day hopping around the city, seeing sites, roaming the Rambla, almost getting robbed by pick pockets. We settled for a traditional meat, cheese and bread lunch at a tiny cafe Cristina and my brother had frequented years back. Delicious. The size of me, if I lived in Spain. Solar Eclipse potential. Another ice cream mars bar and we were back for more HoHo-ing. Sagrada Familia, Casa Batllo, Barcelona Cathedral-- none of which we were bothered to pay to get into, but from the outside, looked just lovely. Then there was La Boqueria. La Boque-rific. The most ridiculously amazing market I have ever experienced. Every corner turned had me gobsmacked. Row upon row of the most delicious looking fresh fruit, candied fruit, dried fruit, marzipan fruit. Marzipan hot dogs. Marzipan sushi. Marzipan doughnuts. Marzipan everything. An entire kiosk of, wait for it, candy. Just so much candy. Every kind of candy. We definitely bought candy. But then things got weird. Very weird. Now I am generally a very open minded person when it comes to food. I will eat pretty much anything and everything so long as it's prepared for me and, if need be, there is ketchup in close proximity. But what I'm about the explain to you is just, well, it's no. The answer is no. The raw meat section. We begin with pig legs and hooves. Ok, I've heard of this. Even stupid ginger beard told me his great grandma used to snack on said delicacy, so I can cope with this. But as we continued on, the ability to cope became sparse. I'm not known to be a very queazy person. I actually find a great deal of pleasure in disgusting things. Ask me to pluck the feathers off a freshly decapitated chicken and I'll giggle with the upmost glee. But ask me to stand next to a brain displayed in tupperware and I will smack the bullshit right out of you. Yes, brains. Or how about a little tongue? And by little I mean like a foot's worth of delectable, taste bud clad, tongue. No? Then perhaps a bit of pig face? Nostrils and all. Still not your style? Ok, ok, then what you're looking for is surely a taste of animal testicles. But that queazy feeling quickly turned to pure, fuming, mortification when I came to the last glass chamber of disgust and saw the saddest thing to ever exist under the same roof as candy. There before me, among every body part imaginable, was the head of a sheep. Completely skinned, just sitting there, looking up at me with it's one beady black eye. 

"We need to leave. Now."

I officially hate Spain. 

In order to cope with what can only be described as the most depressing sight of my quarter life, we stopped for a coffee break (I could have done with a sangria break but I was still proving the 'borderline' to my addiction). The latte break turned into a chirro and macaroon break (point one for the predominant fat kid) and by the time we were on our final leg of the bus tour, I was out cold. When I came to, the blue line had come to its final destination, which just so happened to stop right out front of a restaurant called Citrus. Dinner time. And oh my word, was it ever. This meal could easily go down in my archives as one of the best meals to ever meet my oversized mouth. Tapas, you are my everything. Spinach and shrimp rolls, goat cheese asparagus, my very first paella, creme brulee, and the most profound food coma to ever hit this seasoned Canadian foodie. Note that I didn't consume any meat. It was still a delicate subject. 

The next morning was again grey, as was my emotional state. Four days in Spain and I would be returning home even whiter than when I left. I cursed the heavens as I donned my second jumper, missed another continental breakfast (that's 2-1 for the skinny bitch) and hopped into another cab (I have a new found appreciation for the tube) destined for  indoor fun: L'Aquarium de Barcelona. Cristina wanted to see sharks. We both wanted to see penguins. There were definitely sharks. An entire underwater tunnel of shark viewing madness. There were other weird and ominous sea creatures, but many of them resembled the edible organs of the all the poor animal souls I saw the day before, so I was quickly losing interest. I just want penguins. We searched the entire premise for the tiny wobbling non-birds and were starting to lose hope when suddenly, before our eyes stood a ten foot penguin with a sign saying, Don't forget to visit us!  We ran in the directions of the arrows like small, annoying infant children only to find an empty tank. Our hearts sank. We found an aquarium woman and asked where the penguins had gone.

"They're ill." The woman said, in her heavy spanish dialect.

"They were killed?!?!?!" Cristina shrieked. 

"Ill. There are sick."

"What the hell have you done to them that they're all sick??"

It was time to leave. 

Keeping with routine, another sad mood would be cured with a quick caffeine stop. A coffee kiosk stood not far from the exit; a young senior standing behind an espresso machine, and in front of a row of alcohol. Oh hello, good friend. 

"Hola! Could I please have a latte."

"Ci"

"…And if you wanted to throw some Baileys in that bad boy I wouldn't hold it against you."

"Would you like?"

"…Are you serious?" I turned to Cristina, "It's not even 1:00pm and we're on the street at a coffee kiosk and he is actually offering me Baileys?"

"Ya, dude."

I'm not even sure why I was surprised. I live in London. I've been to Ireland. I should be used to unlimited access to booze 24 hours a day. 

Cristina takes over, "We'll have two."

"Gracias!" I add. 

A woman punches at the till then requests four euros from us, then interrupts herself and asks if we are together or separate. 

"Separate."

I hand her four euros and she shakes her head. 

"Two euro. Separate, no?"

A shocked silence. 

"It's two euro for one??!"

"Ci."

In awe of this information, I ask no questions and hand her the ridiculously cheap total. I watch as the cafe senior pours the Baileys. From my newly acquired amateur knowledge of free pours, I'd say he was at a double shot. Possibly an additional half. He places the coffees in front of our jaw dropped faces and asked if we wanted more.

I officially love Spain.

The rest of our day consisted of another lunch stop at the bread, cheese, and meat cafe, Cristina and I flying solo for a cheeky jug of sangria (which turned into two cheeky jugs of sangria) then back together for another tapas feast at Citrus. Why mess with a good thing? A final stop at Mcdonalds for some take away desserts. Doesn't matter how strange it sounds, Mcdonalds in Spain serves the most amazing desserts. Cheesecake, macaroons, chocolate ganache, cupcakes. Unreal. Ok, so the fat kid definitely won this round. Whatever. I have a fabulous personality.  

The next morning we said our goodbyes in traditional Chelsea/Cristina fashion: short and sweet, with no room for tears or emotional outbursts. Another god forsaken Ryanair voyage and I was home. Ah, the sweet smell of London! How strange to land in London and feel glad to be home. And I was. I missed it. Without thinking twice, I got off the tube and went straight to the unnamed bar (if we're talking about home, this is basically the same thing). It felt good to be surrounded by all the crazies again. My favourite crazy arrived to sweep me back to the notorious bachelor pad-dy, where I couldn't be more happier to be. It was in that moment when I officially felt that I had made a life for myself here. I had come home for the first time since I'd decided to call this city home. And it felt good. It felt natural. Authentic. Like this was always where I was meant to be. Where I was meant to call home. 

Twenty more months is not enough. 

She's a Woman

Friday May 16th/2014

Three major things have happened with the coming of May. My brother, Josh, returned to London, now holding the same visa I do. I temporarily moved into The Alex and shortly after was unofficially evicted. I turned 25. All of which happened within three days of each other. Allow me to elaborate.

With the return of my brother, came the end of my stay at Stuart House, and my resignation as Dan the Man's house mate. Josh moved back into his room, and I was to still reside in The Alex, despite my not so long ago termination. Carmen had offered me her room until I figured out my next place of residence. The humour I found in the fact that I'd still be living in the very place that canned me was priceless. I dragged my ridiculous number of suitcases from Josh's to the bar, cursing my inability to pack logically. Four days passed (one being my birthday) with my belongings inhabiting The Alex, and not much else. I was still spending every night at Chris's, and every day working at the bar that shall remain unnamed, so Carmen's room was literally nothing more than a storage unit. Wednesday May 7th, Josh's birthday, and what would be remembered as the second time that bloody pub would screw me over. I awoke to a text from Carmen asking if I could meet her to talk. I was getting kicked out. I knew it. And sure enough, I was right. Protocol this, fire hazard that. Whatever the reason was (this sentence, in person, would include air quotes and a mild eye roll), I once again found myself vacating The Alexandra with less than I had entered with. Only this time I wasn't scared of what was to come. Pissed? Upset? Of course, it's me. But not scared. Things work out. They always do. So I towed my baggage back through the streets of Clapham for the millionth time and landed, again, at the unnamed bar. A place that seems to have become my sanctuary amid the endless chaos of my involuntary vagabond lifestyle. My entire life now sat in the handicap bathroom of the bar, without a clue as to where it would settle next. Did you miss me recently explaining what a control freak I tend to be? I should win an award for how calmly and sanely I dealt with this situation. I didn't even get drunk in order to sedate myself (another tendency I've accumulated). What was the point? My upside down life had reached the point of comical. There was a moment during my shift that night, where a parcel arrived packed with Trooper Ale pint glasses that we would never use. 

"Look at me. I'm a friggen trooper! This glass was made for me. I'm totally taking one home." A moment of realization…. "Ha! I don't have a home!" I broke out in uncontrollable laughter. Because what else are you going to do? At this point, it's just fucking funny. In order to not run home to my Mommy, it has to be funny. It's hysterical. 

So now my belongings and I have come to a brief separation period. They are currently sharing a room with my incredibly kind brother, back at the Stuart House, while I continue to shack up at the Irish bachelor pad-dy. Ha! The bachelor paddy. I'm funny. Chris would cringe at this witty new title. 

So 1)Josh moved back. 2) I'm a homeless waif. And now 3) Happy Birthday to me!

To be honest, the fact that it was happy was unexpected. I have feared turning 25 since the moment my 24th birthday ended. Mind numbing fear to be more precise. The dreaded quarter of a century. My mid-twenties. My mother was pregnant with her first child at 25. Married, with a career, and a mortgage. I work at a bar where I'm drunk 90% of my clocked hours and my last known address is the bathroom stall of said bar. A fairly even comparison. If only that was the worst of it. A few days before the impending "celebration", stupid ginger beard thought it would be entertaining to pull out as many grey hairs as he could find on my head. He finished, not because he had rid my scalp of all intruders, but because of boredom. There were many more, I was told, as he handed me what could have easily been mistaken for a horse tail's worth of white hair. Chris is younger than me. This did not help my mind numbing fear. 

The day before the big day, what was meant to be a chill Sunday evening of pints at Tommy's bar, took a turn for the better, finding us back at the unnamed bar, then shortly after, a turn for the worse, finding me head first into a toilet. Turns out my birthday happened to land on a bank holiday in the UK (which will now officially be known as Chelsea Day, We love Chelsea Day-- working title) so Sunday Funday, became Sunday Funday on steroids. The minute midnight hit someone yelled, 

"It's Chelsea's birthday!"

Everyone, "Happy Birthday Chelsea!"

Shots. I remember shots. I remember drinks appearing before me while I hadn't even finished the previous. Then more appearing just seconds after the one before the last disappeared into my bloodstream. More shots. God, I hate Sambuca. And tequila. Jaegermeister can suck my balls. Yet still, more shots. Someone picking me up and spinning me around. A moment of nausea repressed by another shot. A brief recuperation period in the staff area downstairs. Another cider. A momentary camp out on a bathroom stall floor to regain what little was left of my composure. A victory lap… stumble… around the bar. Shots. Nausea that could not be tamed with more shots. The possibility of immanent death. I need to go home. The next morning, Chris would inform me that I left the bar doors and instantly seemed perfectly sober and far from death. Until the minute we entered his house where I dashed to his bathroom, where, as previously mentioned, I would end my night face down in the toilet, inches away from own vomit, Chris sitting behind me, holding back my hair. 

The next morning, the morning of May 5th, the morning I became old, I awoke to the vague memory of me running around the unnamed bar chanting, "I'M 25! I'M 25!" 

I need to not be awake. 

The second time I regained consciousness was to the sound of Christopher's voice,

"Happy Birthday Chelsea."

A vast improvement. I rolled over to kiss him and was quickly reminded just how much I had to drink the night before as my insides considered becoming my outsides. What a way to welcome the age of 25. Get so drunk the previous night that you wake up feeling closer to 75, or more accurately circling the drain. But there was no time for self pity, and nothing left in my upside-down stomach to regurgitate. I had a twelve o'clock date with Tommy for legitimate birthday pints at The Alex, and at the rate I was currently capable of, it would be a week before I'd make it there. 

12:45. I arrived to a less than please Irishman, alone with his guinness. Luckily for me, Tommy had been partying just as hard (well maybe slightly less hard) with me the night before and was well aware of the state I would inevitably be in this morning. Of course, this didn't stop him from getting in a few warranted stabs before treating me to my first pint of cider as a twenty-five year old woman. Tommy then walked me to the unnamed  bar where we met Chris, and along with my fellow staff, nursed our hang overs with the notorious hair of the dog. A quick call in to Clapham North Pub to meet Angela, Bernie, Bryan, and baby Bobby for, you guessed it, more pints, then off to meet Josh and our Canadian friend, Cai at The Falcon, to line our stomachs with a bit of nourishment before continuing on with an evening fit for an alcoholic King. I downed my free birthday pint, curtesy of a dear friend, and fellow local bartender, before I introduced stupid ginger beard to my brother. An hour passed and it was official. They got along. I could even go as far as to say they liked each other. (That staying single thing is really giving me a run for my money.)

After feasting on traditional bangers and mash, the most amazing burger, and whatever you call those little lightly battered and fried fish that people eat whole, (whitebait?) we made our way to the infamous Alex where the party was officially to begin. For the record, I shared these dishes. I have to emphasize this because with me, it's more than likely, and a fair assumption to think that I devoured everything solo. The Alex was filled with everyone. The Dead Rabbits, all of my beloved regulars (both from the Alex and unnamed bar), and my favourite barwench co-worker, standing in front of them all with a big grin on her face. I couldn't have felt more loved if I tried. A chocolate birthday cake courtesy of Mulrooney and a rendition of the birthday song that could have been heard all the way back in Canada, proved me wrong. We closed the Alex and stumbled back to the unnamed bar where we became the night's riff raff (as my barwench would say), partying hard into the early morning hours. My fear of being 25 had subsided, or been sedated heavily by alcohol consumption. I had entered my mid-twenties surrounded by so many amazing friends. I couldn't have asked for a better celebration, or better people to have shared it with. London may find some morbid delight in making me leap over every obstacle imaginable, but every once in a while, she'll let me know I'm doing alright. And when she does, it makes everything else worth the while.