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.  

Let it Be

Thursday May 1st/2014

It is a struggle to put your life on paper when as of recent, your entire life seems to revolve around a bar (a bar that if I had any wits, it's details will never meet these pages), and little else. All I seem to be doing these days is working. And drinking. But those two tend to come hand in hand when you're a blossoming british bartender. When I'm not pouring jager, or serving pint after pint, or sweeping up broken glass or yelling at customers to STOP HITTING THE PING PONG BATS AGAINST THE TABLE, I am one place, and one place only…

Over the past few weeks, I have found myself lost in another dimension, an Irish oasis, tucked away from the rest of the city. A world filled with youtube videos of Christy Moore, Luke Kelly and the Dubliners, and Ronnie Drew. I am constantly being educated on Wexford and Kilmore (do you even know how many castles are in Wexford??? Or that strawberries are just as much, if not more, of a commodity than potatoes over in the 'sunny south east'?). The IRA is discussed in many a conversation, even though I still have very little concept of what it is. Phrases like "What's the craic", "Come on to fuck" (not what you think it means, get your head out of the gutter), "shifting" and "Spastic" seem to make their way into my daily vocabulary, and my ability to identify an irish accent has become practically flawless. There are moments when I question whether in fact, I am even still in London. I am in London, nestled in a tiny room inside what can only be described as the definition of a bachelor's pad in Clapham North. The Irishman's abode. 

Christopher Liam John Whelan. The man is utterly impossible. Impossibly obnoxious, and ignorant, and childish, and stubborn as all hell. He literally drives me crazy. Chris has this incredible ability to make my blood boil on a regular basis. He's stupidly sexy, and ridiculously funny, and annoyingly adorable. I have this bizarre urge to want to kiss him and kick him, simultaneously. Basically, the bastard has me falling head over heels, and I could kill him for it. For weeks, I've been consumed by infatuation, a fatally addictive emotion, and a high that I just can't seem to come down from. When I'm not with him, I'm texting him. When I'm not texting him I'm Facebook messaging him. When I'm not abusing all forms of electronic communication, I am constantly thinking about him. Mother fucker. Why is it that the universe insists on having such a corrupt sense of humour. You're walking down the streets of London, basking in single-hood, and loving every minute of it, and BAM. Christopher Whelan. It's been two months since I finally accepted his date proposal, and although I still refuse to categorize what it is we are, I may as well sign my single life away, rais the white flag. My fate is inevitable. And I seem to be the only one in Clapham that thinks I have a say in the matter. 

Fate. What a funny thing. Do I believe in fate? When I first moved here, my brother and I sat for hours over wine, meat, and cheese discussing our feelings on the matter. Recent happenings that make Josh firmly believe in fate and the universe's influence on our lives. I was, and still am, unsure of what I believe. Do I think there is a higher power that controls the comings and goings of my life? Is nothing coincidence? I don't know. But I find myself wondering more and more, especially since I moved to London. So many changes have occurred since I arrived here, major changes, that I can't help but question the source of these changes. Take the Alexandra for instance. What was the point of it? I so easily got the job, loved the job, lost the job. Just like that. So what was the point? One could argue that Chris had something to do with it. My first official shift was the day I met him. I got canned almost immediately after we started "seeing" each other, and found a job ten times better the next day. Fate? Was Chris the reason for my brief encounter with The Alex? Was I only meant to work there long enough for him to come into my life? Him and all the other amazing people I have met during my time there? Still, to this day, the people I call friends, the ones I most love to spend my time with are the regulars from The Alex. So maybe that's all it was. A meeting grounds for all those important to me now, those that make me call London home, and actually feel like it's the truth. Or maybe it was just dumb luck. A brief stint in a bar that happened to carry with it some good people. Whatever it is, things happen over here in the strangest of ways. Sometimes the shittiest of ways. And yet I always seem to come out on top, better off than before. So does it really even matter who or what is behind it all? If anything, London has taught me that there is no sense in trying to plan or control anything because when it comes down to it, absolutely nothing in life is in your control. For a woman with control issues great enough to be institutionalized over, this realization was tough to swallow, but a long time coming. With planning comes expectations. With expectations comes disappointment. If you drop all expectations, you learn to go with the flow. Take life in stride and actually look forward to the unknown. From being fired, to becoming homeless, and then becoming homeless AGAIN (I'll explain later), it's all made me see that life goes on. Simple as that. So why worry? And I don't. Because everything always works out in the end, rarely the way we want it to, but I'm currently learning that's half the fun. 

Last week was Bernie's birthday party. After weeks of listening to me blab on about my sexy irishman, the Mulrooney/Donaldson clan decided it was time to meet him. To have me bring him to the party at the Britannia, our favourite "baby friendly" pub in East London. Baby friendly pub. Jesus. I was undecided whether I wanted to bring my plus one, and over-analyzed his invite for an unhealthy amount of time (some things will never change). In reality, though we'd been spending a substantial amount of time together, we'd really only ever been on one date. Most of our time, all of our time, had been spent in our secluded irish oasis, population: two. I actually had very little knowledge of what Chris was like outside the Alex, or the confines of his bedroom. I had no idea how he would be around "my people". And I wasn't sure I was ready to find out. But my current mantra of releasing expectations and flow going found me lying in bed next to Irish, a week before the party, invite lingering. But when I opened my mouth to ask, I suddenly felt like a foolish little school girl, offering a boy a spot on her dance card. For the first time in my life, I was lost for words. I would look at him, go to speak, then don a slightly retarded face and blank. My mouth would open but nothing would come out. Finally after several failed attempts, he was the one that spoke. 

"Is there something you'd like to ask me, Chelsea?"

"Ummmm…" Quick, Reject, use your words. "Nah, I'm good. Well, maybe. Nope. Nothing to ask…. I mean it's nothing. Not a big deal or anything. It's cool." You're an idiot. "But like, maybe… if you wanted…. (clearing of throat, remind myself to breathe). I was wondering if you…. would maybe… want… to-be-my-date-to-a-birthday-party-next-weekend? (swallow the vomit sitting in my esophagus, and pretend like it ain't no thang) 

"That's it? Pause. "That's all you wanted to ask me?"

Pause. "Yes…?" (Apparently I no longer knew)

"Ya, sure."

Wait, what? Ya, sure? Just like that. Ya, sure?

"……….Really?"

"Ya, why not?"

"Cool. Alright." You're an idiot. "Alright then. Cool." 

Such an idiot. 

And so Sunday came. We met at Clapham North station. He smelled amazing and I was nervous. And sweating. He looked good. It's cool. I'm cool. As we made our way towards Hackney, my nerves relaxed station by station. Turns out he's still funny outside Clapham. And then this happened.

"So what time do you think YOU'LL be leaving the party tonight?"

….

My face may have answered long before I did. Are there different rules to dating in the UK that I am not aware of? When two people attend an event together, as a date, do they not also leave together? I started to sweat again. 

"Oh, were you planning to leave before me? More important plans pending back in Clapham?" I think I may have suddenly got angry. 

"Well, I just wasn't planning to be out all night."

"Alright then. Good to know." Yup, definitely angry. 

Silence. 

He playfully pushed me away (I wanted to push him into the oncoming tube) and said something like, "Stop crying". A phrase he would continue to use all too often in the coming future, and a term that to this day, boils my blood just as much as it did in that moment. 

This should be interesting. 

We arrived, barely, considering I managed to get lost walking to a pub I've been to more than enough times to know better. But it's me and therefor typical. The pub was empty. We were thirty minutes late, but even more typical, the Mulrooneys wouldn't arrive for another fifteen. At first, it was only us and them. A perfect opportunity to observe this wild creature away from his natural habitat (well we were still in a pub, so not too far away, but far enough). But no. Instead, this happened. 

Bernie begins, "So Chelsea, we have something to tell you…"

"Oh my God! You're knocked up again."

"Why does everyone keep saying that? No." And that's when the bomb imploded. I remember very little of what was actually said, partly because of the blow, but mostly because all my attention was focused on not bursting in to tears. Public displays of emotion, in general, are an absolutely no, but public displays of emotion sitting across from the stupid ginger beard are a death warrant. No. 

"We're moving back to ireland. We're moving to Dublin. All of us."

My mouth cracked open as my eyes shifted back and forth from Angela to Bernie, to Bryan who was staring intently at his ale. Then Bobby. I swallowed the urge to cry, then the urge to yell, and finally the urge to throw something directly across the heated outdoor wooden hut we were all awkwardly sitting under. Silence hung, along side anticipation, as I fished for something to say. 

"What?"

The explanation was simple and logical (two things I am rarely familiar with). It made sense for them to go, but I didn't care. It was too much about me right now to bother with the fact that this was probably the right move for them. 

"No. You can't go."

"I told you we shouldn't have said anything to her until later." Angela finally spoke, and I wished she hadn't. We met each other's gaze. She looked sad for me and my eyes became wet. 

"You can't go. You're my family."

"You'll just have to come visit lots. We'll have a 'Chelsea' room!"

"I'm keeping my key. You're not leaving."

That funny thing called expectation. All this time I was worried about Chris getting on with my suto family, only to find out they weren't even sticking around. The irony. I was a mess inside. And as much as I kept reciting my new found mantra, I felt like epic shit. But it was Bernie's birthday, and they were here now, and I still loved them, despite hating them. So we drank (I drank a lot). We drank, and laughed, and I forgot to be sad. People slowly arrived and I quickly got drunk. I hadn't even thought about Chris and his interaction with my traitor family, until Bernie came up to me. 

"You're crazy. We love him."

I scanned the patio and saw him smoking and conversing with Angela, and smiled. I instantly felt calm. Happy (The fourth cider may have assisted with this). He looked over at me and winked. Together, they walked to me and Bernie, and as Angela passed, she gave me a squeeze and a grin that was impossible to misinterpret. 

"Do you want to get a drink with me at the bar?" Chris asked. 

We stood at the end of the long, wooden, Britannia bar, our cider and lager in front of us, the party behind. 

"You ok?"

"Not really. I know it'll be good for them but they're my family out here. They're everything to me."

"Stop crying."

Again, with my favourite phrase. He nudged me hard enough that I needed to catch myself from falling over (cider number five?) and I laughed. 

"Spastic." He said, and shook his head. 

Chris never left that night. Instead we left together, just the way traditional Canadian courtship intended. We walked the dark streets towards the tube, hand in hand, goofing about like a couple of kids, my cheeks sore from laughing. On the tube home, I fell asleep on his shoulder. 

Back in my Irish oasis, lying in Chris' bed, wrapped in his arms, I closed my eyes. The last thing I heard before the night ended was,

"You don't have to be sad. You still have a family here. I'm your family."

Yesterday

Thursday April 17/2014

It took approximately twelve city blocks, several pints of cider, and eventually an entire bottle of champagne to process the fact that I had just been fired. As I walked away from The Alexandra, I hadn't a clue as to where I was going, but I walked as if I had a distinct destination. Swift and efficient, but without a single ounce of focus. I just walked. This must be what shock feels like. 

"Greenking has recently become aware that you write a blog. Effectively immediately, your employment at The Alexandra has been terminated." 

Effective immediately, I felt my heart sink and my breathing slow to an almost non-existent pace. 

"You're firing me?"

I was quickly left sitting alone at a table in the upstairs bar. I felt like I had just been hit by a truck. An incredibly effective "sack and run". I sat there, for what felt like an eternity. If I don't leave, maybe it doesn't count. If I stay here, nothing will change. Once I walk down those stairs and out that door, that's it. Admitted defeat. Jobless, and inevitably homeless. My face instantly turned hot, my head pounded as all of the blood rushed to my cheeks leaving the rest of me feeling completely weightless. As if my head was the only thing keeping me from floating away. A head that was now not only filled with blood, but suddenly rushing with millions of thoughts. What am I going to do? I was meant to move into The Alex at the end of the month. Two weeks. I have no where to live in two weeks. And no money. No job. The Alex was free rent. There's no way I can afford a place. I DON'T HAVE A JOB. My eyes started to burn and well up. Not here. I walked down the stairs, looking straight ahead but seeing nothing. I walked behind the bar one last time, dropped my fob, and left. Admitted defeat. 

And I just kept walking. Eyes glazed and forward. Where do I even go? I had everything figured out. I boasted about life being so easy, everything just falling into place. And now, just as easily, I have nothing. In a matter of seconds everything had changed. All because of a measly blog. 

Without realizing, I had arrived at a bar. With the fewest words possible to prevent an unauthorized outburst of tears, I asked the bartender for a cider. Though I was the only one inside, the room felt suffocating, and my head felt hot again. I sat outside on a picnic bench next to the sidewalk. The moment I sat, every single word I had ever written went rushing through my head. What did I write that was worth being "terminated, effective immediately"? I loved The Alex, and everyone in it. What could possibly be so offensive? I read over every sentence, every post, every quirky anecdote, every sarcastic side note in my head. How they could have been misread, my sarcasm misinterpreted. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. Maybe I was naive to think my blog was just a harmless means of entertainment. I started to think about who could have thought it was more than that. Who would have turned me over to the big wig, Greenking? Surely such a massive company would have had to have been informed of one out of their millions of employees silly little blog. But who would want to do this, knowing my fate would be instant unemployment? I couldn't stop. Thought after thought kept stacking, one on top of the last until the very last one: What now? Tears started to pour. It couldn't be helped. There, on the side of Clapham High Street, surrounded by strangers, I cried. I cried until every thought fell from my eyes and I was left alone. And then I cried some more. 

And then the strangest thing happened. I looked across the street, blurry eyed, tears still streaming down my blushed cheeks, and I laughed. And I couldn't stop laughing. I laughed until my eyes dried and the blood settled from my face. Only one thought remained in my head:

Damn, this will make a great blog post. 

I smiled, grabbed what was now more so my tears than cider and went inside. 

In that moment, the unknown was irrelevant. All I wanted to do was write, and that feeling was more powerful than any that came from losing a job at a bar. Besides, what kind of writer would I be if I didn't stir up a little controversy? 

Regardless of this new found perspective on life's turn of events, I would still have moments of feeling defeated, lost, scared, and utterly hopeless. I had never been fired before. This isn't something I took lightly. Even if my borderline psychotic public outburst had made me feel differently, I was still jobless and soon to be homeless. Not to mention the blow to my pride. Later that night, I found myself exiting the overground station at Hackney Wick with a bottle of the cheapest 'champagne' this unemployed hobo could afford. I may have been drunk. With the intention of heading to Bryan, Bernie, and Angela for emotional support, I found myself immobile, leaning against a wall strewn with hipster graffiti. As the tears pooled in my eyes, I slid down the wall. The moment I hit the pavement, the tears flooded my face. Champagne in hand, I sat there, careless of yet another street side melt down. The streets were empty and carried my sobs in echos down the dark road. The sound of a sliding door jolted my attention. A man stepped out from a navy blue Volkswagen van parked beside me. He said something that I couldn't hear through my own dramatic blubbering. 

"You alright?" He may have repeated. 

"Oh ya. Just grand, thanks."

"Rough night?"

"I've just been sacked, actually. From a job that was meant to house me. In one day, I have managed to become jobless and homeless in a city that's half a world away from my home." I managed to control my crying long enough to respond and begin to uncork my champagne. "So yes, you could definitely say it's been a little rough."

"I'm sorry to hear that." The strange van man continued, though I vaguely listened. He talked about what he did for a living and how he moves from place to place wherever the work takes him. I shared my champagne, and between swigs he shared his cigarette. Then he mentioned something about how things will work out and not to worry about finding work or a house, because it will all work out. It always does. I cocked my head in his direction.  

"…You live in a van."

Silence. 

"My girlfriend says everything happens for a reason."

"People keep telling me that."

The next day, an amazing friend got me a trial shift at the very bar I cried out front of. The bar that I am now employed at. This bar will remain unnamed (I may be dumb, but I'm only dumb once). In the course of twenty-four hours, I was fired and hired--there has got to be some kind of record I've broken here-- and for this I am actually quite impressed with myself. I won't say much, but I will say that this bar makes me very happy. I felt instantly welcomed, and already feel so at home. And I get to use a dumb waiter. 

Though it still appears that I will be homeless come May, many amazing people have offered incredible love and positive words, as well as their support until I'm back on my feet. Things may not be perfect, but I'm not worried. I might even be starting to see this recent disaster as a blessing in disguise. After being hit by unemployment, I sat in The Alex, afraid to leave--afraid of change. But life is always changing. I may have gotten everything I needed from that place and now it was time to move on, move forward. To experience the next chapter of this ever evolving adventure I am living. Perhaps the strange van man was right. 

Maybe everything does happen for a reason. 

Too Much Monkey Business

Friday March 28th/2014

Time has somewhat aided in my getting used to the strange sayings, words, rituals, and overall daily normalities of life in the UK. Even the smallest thing like a few added letters at the end of a word makes all the difference out here. Especially if the company you keep finds a great deal of pleasure in pointing out how silly Canadians sound. Take "chill" for instance. 

"How was your night?"

Canadian: "It was chill."

Brit: "It was chilled."

How such a minute variation can lead to such a substantial amount of mockery, and even the occasional, "What does that mean?", is beyond me.

The worst though, and one that took me an embarrassingly long time to get over, is the way you are greeted. The first time it happened to me, I was completely taken aback. 

Me: "Hey! How are you?"

Everyone else: "Hey, you alright/you ok?"

Instantly you check yourself for blood, or some other sign that something is wrong with you. Am I bleeding? Do I look ill? Did I forget to put on makeup, or a shirt? You start to wipe your face, pull your hair back, and scan for a reflective surface. I think I am ok, or at least I thought I was. Then once you confirm you are in fact wearing a shirt, and your makeup is actually quite flawless today, you're suddenly on the defensive. 

"Of course I'm alright! Why wouldn't I be? What a rude thing to ask. Are you saying I'm ugly? You're ugly. Good day, sir!"

After about a week's worth of questioning my outer appearance and overall health with every hello, I came to terms with the term, though I will fight with all of my being to not pick up this off-putting slang for as long as possible. 

I still struggle with the whole chips versus crisps situation. And I can almost guarantee I always will. Again, mention french fries and you've opened up a can of taunting worms. 

"Ya, could I get some chips please?"

"Sure, any particular flavour?"

Silence. Confused stare. 

"Salt and vinegar, cheese and onion, regular salted, smokey bacon, prawn cocktail (gag me)?"

More silence. A slight cock of the head sideways, and a sudden realization that I'm stupid. 

"Oh shit, ya ok I'll order you some fries."

The "you're stupid" stare enhances. 

I mean people just expect you to know things that are simply ridiculous. When a woman tells me she'd like a fosters lager with a top, why wouldn't I assume she means she wants a lot of head? That's a logical conclusion to make. No, it's not. How, if you have filled the glass with a ton of head, will you fit in the lemonade? Yes, a top means splash in some lemonade with my lager. Lemonade, that in fact, isn't even bloody lemonade! It's 7-Up. There is nothing lemonade about it. I am a fairly open minded person, but this is just dumb. And decide what you want to call it, if you're not going to call it what it is. Don't have two names for it, because now you're just confusing me on purpose. 

"Ya, can I get two vodka whites?"

What is that? Like vodka and milk? We don't serve milk. This is a bar, not a farm. Oh, you mean vodka and lemonade, which isn't even fricken lemonade?! (Don't say fricken either, you will be judged heavily) So a vodka seven. Coming right up, even though you're still dumb. 

How about buck's fizz? Ever heard of this? Not likely. I woke up one morning to my flatmate, Dan and his lady friend sipping mimosas in the living room. 

"There's stuff in the kitchen to make a buck's fizz, if you'd like." Says Dan. What the hell is that monstrosity, and why do I have to drink it when you guys get to have fabulous mimosas?! They're one in the same. What a horribly unattractive title for a mimosa. Buck's fizz. Sounds simply wretched. Buck's fizz. Just sucks the class right out of such a elegant cocktail.

Crossing the street has become less stressful. I mean you'd think that after walking solo in New Delhi for three months, London roads wouldn't be an issue. But people are dumb and habitual. Spending twenty four years of your life looking left isn't something one easily quits. Luckily for me, London seems to know just how dumb the human race is. On every cross walk, if you look down at your feet, the road will tell you which way to look. I can promise you, if it weren't for this I'd be dead. Total road kill. There are some smaller roads that don't offer cheat arrows, and I basically just look straight ahead and hope for the best. 

I'm learning to get over the fact that cafes here serve one size, and one size only. A very small size at that. I struggled, a great deal. A venti girl can't be expected to cope with this loss overnight. 

"It's quality, not quantity over here Chels. Learn to appreciate it." Says Josh. No. Me need triple shots. But the loving brother that I have, made sure to show me a cafe with the biggest cups he had come across before he left, and for this I am grateful. It has made for a smoother transition, even though while holding said cup in one hand, it still practically disappears. I will say this much though, there is not a single cafe that you'll go to that has shit espresso. Perhaps some slightly less smooth and creamy than others, but never shit. The standard in Canada is hardly comparable. In an recent hung over state, I was desperate for a venti and knew I wouldn't survive work on a 10oz flat white (basically a latte with less milk/foam. Long black is another one to wrap your brain around. It's an americano. I know, it's just too much.) So I ran to the nearest Starbucks. Just god awful. I mean even in Canada, I could tell you Starbucks coffee is shit, but after a month of the most incredibly delicious espresso, I could have been drinking sewage water and enjoyed it more. 

Eating over here is something that is next to impossible to avoid, and because of this i've been forced to buy fat pants. Fat pants that with every day are beginning to look more and more like a sausage casing, than boyfriend jeans. My diet generally consists of cheese, wine, chocolate, and the occasional chorizo sausage. And peanut butter of course. After about a week of pretending to be a grown up and buying healthy grown up things like bananas, I quickly grew bored and realized there are so much more horribly rich and delicious foreign foods with impressively high caloric levels at my disposal. Now you might think, "Gosh, Chelsea, if you're only eating cheese, chocolate, liquid grapes, and the occasional sausage, you truly couldn't be gaining that much weight. That doesn't sound all that bad." Well if I was eating one slice of cheese, a few slices of heaven ham, and a glass of wine, then yes. You'd be right. And I generally enter into eating with this intention. I go into the kitchen, cut a single slice, put the cheese away, leave the kitchen satisfied with said singular slice, only to return moments later and repeat the process. After several trips, I finally just give up pretending and take the entire brick with me to the bedroom. Why lie to myself? And before I know it, I've devoured an entire block of cheese, half a bottle of wine, three quarters of a tub of peanut butter, half a jar of marmite, and somehow there is a cream egg missing from my stash. Ok two cream eggs. I also have an incredibly unhealthy relationship with croissants. Even worse, I have discovered cronuts. The most beautiful cross breading of a croissant and a donut. And there you have it. My sausage casing situation explained. And I had come to terms with my obesity, embraced it even. Why beat myself up over a little added junk in the trunk, when I'm so much enjoying devouring every morsel of delectable edibles? I'm fat and happy. Why mess with a good thing? But my blissful ignorance regarding the junk in my trunk could only last so long. One slow Friday night at the pub, I got to talking to some non regulars. Two older gentlemen, both more round than tall. Our conversation led to me being a dancer and having an audition coming up in the next week. One of the fat bastards turns to me, with his ever so endearing British accent and says, "So you'll have to lose some weight for that then, ya?"

Though still witty enough to respond with, "Keep talking and your next round will be more spit than guinness." I was livid. With myself. It had become official. Undeniable. Unavoidable. Fat. And not so happy. 

The next morning I squeezed my junk into a pair of stretchy pants and cried my way through a yoga class. 

I supposed I should really thank the fucker for pulling my double chinned head out of my white cheddar filled clouds. Time to buck up, Chels. Your fat kid days are over. 

Strangely enough, being the fattest I've ever been has not stopped me from having an incredibly active dating life. The amount that I get hit on shocks me. I almost judge men for finding the inflated version of me attractive. I'm tempted to pull out my iphone and flash them a photo of me from 4 months ago. You think this is hot? If only you knew. There really is no better place to be single than in London. Every date is just an excuse to get to know the city. New restaurants and bars every night. An exploration of unchartered territory. Having a guy on my arm is really just an added bonus. But I've quickly discovered that as a single woman, it seems I have taken on the distinct qualities and habits of two well known television characters. Jerry Seinfeld and Charlotte York (McDougal-Goldenblatt). I begin with the determined romantic of Charlotte and soon take on the neurotic tendencies of Jerry. With every guy I meet, I am thrown into a whirlwind of heavenly thoughts. Like Charlotte, every man is a total dream boat, bathed in perfection. And if I had myself a Carrie,  I'd most likely utter the words, "I think this could be it, Carrie." upon meeting each and every one. If I had a diary, it would be flooded with pages of "Mrs Chelsea Calver" or "Mr and Mrs Sean Francis". Luckily for me, this ridiculous behaviour doesn't last long. The Seinfeld in me, almost instantly rears it's sceptical and overly judgemental head, and wipes the Prince Charming persona right off the map. You see, much like Seinfeld, the smallest of things irritate me, to the point of unbearable. And I am a master at finding these unbearable things in pretty much every man I meet. Just as Seinfeld found "man hands", the naked squatter, the woman that wears only one dress. And so on and so forth.

Take Simon. Simon was a man. A very tall, smart, witty, and financially sound man. Simon made for great conversation, and a good laugh. But he made funny faces when he talked. It was like having drinks with a muppet. Or a cartoon character. Or the penis face from the film, Bridesmaids. No. He would not be receiving a second date. 

Then there was Tom. Tom was a boxer. A pretty enough man. Short, but tolerable. Easy to talk to, and interesting enough. For our first date, he decided on a Mediterranean restaurant called Del Aziz. After researching it, as I always do, it looked impressive and I was keen. Two days before our date I get a text telling me to meet him outside Del Aziz at eight o'clock. Why? Why must we meet outside? How ridiculous. That's not normal. What kind of man asks a girl to wait outside? No. That date never happened. Two weeks later, the still persistent outside lurker had asked for a rematch so many times that I pitied him enough to say yes. I was attending the preview of Yves Saint Laurent that night at the picture house so I told him to meet me in the lounge afterwards at nine. Nine o'clock comes and goes and he is no where to be seen. This is because he's been standing out front of the cinema, waiting for me. Again with the loitering outdoors. Was he some kind of caged animal in another life and gets anxiety about entering buildings? No. And a whole lot more no to a second date. 

Ben. Ben was very funny, and quick witted. And lovely to look at. We exchanged numbers and began texting. This man didn't have a hope in hell dating me. He used "their" instead of "there" twice in one text message. Once is forgivable, twice is a deal breaker. No. 

Even very tall, very handsome Sean lost me. Granted, our second date went well. Very well. I took him to an amazing tapas place close to my house (things must remain convenient for me or I won't bother). Another three hour dinner passed, him still gazing into my eyes just as much as before, if not more. He showed me that he had scabs on his elbows from leaning so intently on the table towards me while we talked on our first date. I had no idea I was so engaging. Well, ya I kind of did, but that's impressive. He also informed me that while I swayed to the bathroom at one point, the man sitting at the table next to us leaned over to very tall, very handsome Sean, and said, "I'm not sure what your situation is with your lady, but I just had to say, you two have the most incredible chemistry. And you look absolutely amazing together. She is really something. I'd hold on to that one, if I were you." You know how I feel about hearing strangers sing my praises. Just ghastly. Tell me more. Really something, you say? Please, elaborate. 

He wouldn't let me pay, which I wasn't about to argue with, and when we got home he asked if I was feeling a bit peckish. This man has yet to discover I am always peckish, and that peckish is a shit adjective for my hunger. He walked to me Charlie's fish bar and introduced me to my first saveloy. Battered and deep fried sausage. Are you kidding me? This man has literally just won my heart. The next morning/afternoon, I took him to Brixton food market for the most insanely delicious and mouth watering pulled pork sandwich nestled between the most fluffy brioche bun. Correction, this sandwich won my heart. Hands down. No question. He finally let me pay which was fine because the pretty, yet slightly simple waiter only charged me for one sandwich.  As we walked home arm in arm, we talked about everything and nothing, and it was all good and fine until I brought up favourite movie of all time. He said The Last Samurai. No. I haven't seen him since.

Needless to say, when my date with Chris arrived, I assumed it'd only be a matter of time before he would expose his unforgiving flaw. We met at The Jam Tree (at the bar, not in the entrance way like savages). He had chosen the place, and I was quite surprised. It was the most adorable cocktail bar. Regardless of the outcome of the date, if for no other reason, this man will go down in history for taking me to a bar that serves a peanut butter martini. No one could possibly trump this.  Three dirty gins and one life altering peanut butter martini in, I awaited the inevitable. A possible overuse of the word, "awesome". Sitting cross-legged, knee to knee. Ridiculously small and overly frequent beer sipping. But nothing. Not a single thing irked me the entire evening. And what was worse, I was having an amazing time. Shit. He's a funny fucker. Not only can he can keep my attention span, but I'm genuinely engaged. I wouldn't say I scabbed my elbows over it, but I don't hold that against him. Not everyone can be as intriguing as yours truly. The night found us at The Royal Oak, yet another bar where everybody may not know your name, but chances are they'll know Chris'. And without fail, we completed our evening with the biggest screwdriver I'd ever seen (the drink, get your head out of the gutter). "It's all about the vitamin C". He says. Well I totally called that one. 

Five days followed consisting of us in each others presence and still no sign of Seinfeld stamp of disapproval. Shit. Of course, word of our date spread like wildfire at The Alex, and before I knew it, people I didn't even know were asking about Chris's new woman. "We're not dating. I'm not his woman." This statement continues to leave my mouth more times than I care to admit. And as much as I will remain adamant about keeping said statement a fact, it looks as though I may like this one. This, I was not expecting. Nor do I welcome very openly. My want to be someone's girlfriend at this moment could be closely compared to wanting Syphilis. Or Gangrene. Neither of which appeals to most. But when he plays me old Irish songs, or kisses my nose, or surprises me with candy (yes, the man's a genius) it makes comparing a relationship to an unwanted STD rather challenging. But I shall stand my ground. I'm not going down without a fight. And unlike the incident with crazy drunk bitch and my two swollen cheek bones, I'll be prepared. Leathers up and ready to go.