Penny Lane

Monday Nov 10/2014

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

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

She was riding a bicycle. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Butcher: Can I help you?

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

Butcher: Yes, we have many--

Fucktard: --I'll take one! 

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

Fucktard: Oh.

Butcher: Would you like to order one?

Fucktard: Yes. I think so. 

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

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

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

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

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

Fucktard: Great! Will you be working then?

Butcher: Unfortunately. 

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

Butcher: I can hardly wait. 

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

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