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.
