London Recalling…Wapping Old Stairs

It’s been a tough few weeks powering through illness but finally, dear God finally, I can see light at the end of the tunnel. My body is finally kicking out the nasty virus that’s had me confined to my bed for so long.

As I reenter the real world and crack on with life, it seems apt to now find myself reaching the conclusion of this tiny fragment of a life well-lived. Time to reflect and move on.

London Recalling

 

This post follows Part 3, Solo Sell-Outs

Part 4, Wapping Old Stairs

 

I awoke on the Tuesday wanting to get on and make the most of the day, but painfully aware of the hot breath of fleeting time breathing down my neck. The final day; when the clock becomes so familiar a sight that it could be better described as an uneasy relationship, a bitter partner always demanding attention.

Before considering anything else there was a more pressing need to address. With my four blueberry muffins now little more than a sprinkling of crumbs in a plastic packet, I needed to get myself a solid breakfast to set me right. From previous visits when my parents had travelled to see me, I knew that Café Rouge did a morning offering (and the one at St. Katharine Docks had a considerably better view, tempting as the Wetherspoons on the main road opposite the hotel was).

I packed the non-essentials in my bag, ready for a speedy get away when I returned and headed out into the bright Winter sun to that familiar place once more.

At Café Rouge I placed my order and happily sunk myself into a History magazine and people watching. I tried to guess where the passers by were heading, what type of jobs they had based on their attire. An easy and difficult game to play; those wearing long black coats, accompanied with pressed black trousers and leather shoes jutting out beneath, well, they were clearly heading off to jobs in The City. To meet clients or handle their valuable assets. Everyone else though, they were harder to work out; their determination and singleness would strongly imply they were going to work, but the clothes varied to such a degree it was possible they could have sat at the bottom or the very top of their respected payrolls.

I flicked through the magazine whilst picking at my fruit-topped pancakes, enjoying the contrast of life in the near empty restaurant and the pedestrian rat-race outside. How enjoyable it was to reconnect with History as a leisurely activity as opposed to spending hours locked in a library.

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While I was sat there the odd person came in and out, spending the whole experience glued to their phones. Seldom did they even look up to take in the view. It didn’t surprise me, it certainly wasn’t the first time I’d felt strangely old and antiquated in my solo habits, but I almost felt sorry for them. They’d clearly come by themselves to this establishment for some reason, yet it was hard to see how staring at a mobile for half an hour could constitute as a particularly enjoyable, or memorable, an experience. It’s central London; you couldn’t walk fifty yards without hitting a coffee shop or take out, yet these people wanted to dine in.

Did they want to say they’d been there? Did they want to clear their heads? Or did they simply just want someone to cook for them? Unanswered questions; they departed before I could ever vocalise them.

**

The day was shaping up to be a beautiful one. The sun was bright, the sky a cool, clear blue and the weather unseasonably mild. Taking a stroll around some of the newest recruits to the yachting ranks, I undid a button on my red coat. It almost felt impossible to even consider this morning to fall under the gloomy banner of ‘British Winter’.

By the time I returned to the hotel and swept up the last of my belongings there was only five hours separating me and my inward journey back to Wiltshire. The hotel’s policy on baggage being a friendly one, I left my weighty case at reception and hacked off on foot in an Easterly direction with large handbag bulging with my fully charged laptop.

Time may have been limited, but for where I was headed it was plenty sufficient. I was returning to the zone two suburb that for over a year had been my home; I was returning to Wapping. Wandering around those old streets with its rich history and Overground line. You could almost say I was Wapping free…

A tenuous link, granted, but certainly catchier than…

…At any rate.

**

Wapping map
Rough mapping of Wapping region, as highlighted in red box

Wapping is, in my opinion, one of central London’s best kept secrets. As any map will clearly demonstrate, the little nub of a suburb is located only a stone’s throw from Tower Bridge to the West, and cradled below the trendy Shoreditch to the north. Via the Overground line you need only devote half an hour of your time and find yourself in any number of well-known spots around the capital.

To paraphrase a well known cinematic quote…

…Everything below the A1203 is Wapping. And that shadowy place? That’s Shadwell and I learnt very quickly that I must never go there…especially in Summer clothing on a hot day.

And yet, despite this, throughout my time during and after living in London, no one ever seemed to know the area. At a push telling people it sat below Shoreditch or Whitechapel, sometimes that jogged the die-hards, but otherwise it just became easier to tell people I lived in East London or by Tower Bridge.

Maybe because it lacks the buzzing night-life, maybe because it’s pumped full of millionaire residential flats and well-to-do families with privately educated children, but Wapping never drew the young professionals or the reputation other, similar, areas had gleamed. Whatever the reason for it’s amolimity, I was fine to accept my lowly status of ‘single professional’ in amongst the converted warehouse buildings.

The community watch reports were always printed on the highest quality paper with the most colourful of photographs. You’d find them stuck harshly next to the old lifts by some local who had access to the lockable noticeboard with brass-coloured pins that were starting to rust. Still, these seasonal reports were reassuring and amusing documents.

“No anti-social behaviour spotted on recent night walk with local police, other than a worrying rise in the number of discarded laughing gas canisters littered in alleyways. Will continue to monitor.”

I many regards it often felt like I was back living in the Cotswolds once more.

Due to youth and circumstance I could only afford accommodation on a single, long street of ugly council and ex-council tower blocks, a street that ran through the heart of Wapping like an artery vein and what I’m sure the wealth of the area would probably rename ‘the embarrassment of Wapping’ if they could. But, if it meant I could both walk to Threadneedle street for work and feel safe and removed from the reputation of other districts then that was fine with me. I’d take the shady looks as I crossed down between the overflowing rubbish dumpsters; we all had the same postcode, I just had it for a fraction of the price.

Below is a great mini-documentary of Wapping that’s nicely pitched somewhere between slow TV and attention-demanding:

**

After roaming these streets freely in the present climate, the daylight and general lack of other people making the experience all the more satisfying, both feet and shoulder were ready for a break from carrying their heavy loads.

I briefly popped by a place I used to work from a lot as a change of scene, a cafe/eatery that was owned by the local community but rented out to private enterprises, the Turk’s Head. As I stepped inside I was taken with how drastically the interior had changed, I could only assume it was due to a refresh or change of ownership. Gone were the plain white walls, the barrel-top tables, the scratchy chalkboards; now there were normal tables, and stylish green colour pallette. It was busier than I remembered it to be.

I decided quite quickly that this wasn’t the place to stop, but not before I tacked up a business card on the community noticeboard by the door, just as it had always been. I ducked out onto the street just as a member of staff caught my eye and started heading towards me.

**

Cinnamon Coffee Shop, named after the street it corners, it was the one place that I had been determined to visit on my trip above all else, even before I’d set foot on London soil. Even if I’d put my head through the door and been unable to find a seat, I still wouldn’t have forgiven myself if I hadn’t at least tried.

When I lived in Wapping, Cinnamon was local to the very letter. I could leave my flat on the fourth floor and less than five minutes later be sat on one of the curbside seats watching dog-walkers stroll by as I sipped a hot Americano. If I could compile everything I loved about Wapping (and most of London for that matter) it would be the phrase, “my local is an independent coffee shop”.

Cinnamon

In my more navie days of London living I’d fantasized about visiting the joint early one Sunday morning with some imagninery guy I’d have been seeing, taking the bold step of introducing him to a closely guarded secret; the place that serves the best coffee.

Sadly or unsadly (the jury is still out on this one), this fictitious scenario never played out and, in the end, it would only ever be my younger sister that got taken on a ‘date’ to see Cinnamon. Entering the shop around eighteen months after the ever first visit, the feeling now was just the same as it had been then. Nothing had changed and neither had my feelings. I’d finally returned.

I handed my loyalty card to the barista; the little piece of card bent around the edges from having spent the best part of a year waiting to be redeemed. Once produced, I lifted the latte (cinnamon, of course) to my window seat where it joined my laptop and book.

Like any great and all-consuming love, I spent over two hours in the same spot, escaping my bubble only briefly on two occasions; one to ‘freshen up’, the other to order a panini at the counter that was less than a meter away.

Even thinking now to this part of my London trip, it seems strange to picture myself planning a day around a coffee shop, only for the time there to be spent mostly staring at a laptop screen. But I suppose in a sense that’s the very definition of happiness or an appreciation of something, when you take it completely for granted. And in my mind it still seems daft that I love this one little coffee shop so much, in the same way that I got a bit emotional when I went to attach my business card to the bottom of the noticeboard, only to find they still had the old one there.

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The original had been placed there little over a week before I moved out of London. A different time, a different frame of mind. I once visited a different coffee shop in Wiltshire only to find a week later the owner had striped away everyone’s adverts, so the unusualness of my card’s presence in Cinnamon after all this time, well, it only reaffirmed my respect.

Cinnamon had seen me through the good and bad times of London living, my unchanging urban rock.

**

I glanced at my watch and realised that time was nipping at my ankles. I tidied up my belongings and found myself, somewhat painfully, having to walk double-time to make my way through Wapping and back to the hotel where my suitcase was being stored.

From the hotel I made my way to Tower Hill underground to catch a Circle Line train back to Paddington train station. To get cheaper tickets I had booked a very specific train, the 16:04. God help me if I missed that and had to face up coughing up for a same day, weekday rush hour train!

(Oh, and I am very much aware of the parody by Amateur Transplants – but let’s not. This a family show after all. I’ll stick with a song about nuclear Armageddon, thanks.)

No trip to London would be complete without a bit of drama, even if it shouldn’t have surprised me. Major delays. Major delays across the entire Circle Line. If that wasn’t enough, it seemed my usually reliable mobile application Mapper was bailing on me too. On one platform it clearly stated trains from that side were going Westward to Paddington, yet Mapper was adamant that I should board trains on the opposite side of the station. Cue the most manic fifteen minutes of my life as, with suitcase and heavy bag of cactus plants in tow, I went back and forth multiple times while I tried to work out which platform to board from. Because of the delays I only missed one train in that time, although I later questioned if I’d followed my gut and the large signs, I’d have got to my destination a lot quicker and less flustered.

**

Little time to take in the sights of my old friend, no sooner had I arrived at Paddington than I found myself jumping straight into the open arms of the Great Western train that would shortly carry me home.

My ticket specified a particular seat I was assigned to, yet given the length of the train the logistics of even getting to the coach with my luggage would prove a challenge. Let alone potentially dealing with the awkward conversation if I found someone sat in it already.

Instead I played the risky game I was all too familiar with; sitting in another person’s reserved seat in the hope they didn’t show up. I’d like to say I spent my last ten minutes in London musing on my time spent and idly watching life go by in the busy station, however it became a strangely nerve-racking experience. My phone’s battery power must have taken a hit from the constant time, nay second, checking. Each shuffling person in the gangway a reason to tense up and avert my gaze. Thankfully the seat was never reclaimed; I felt my body relax as the tubular bulk of machinery started to pull away.

**

The last time I’d left London on a similar train I’d been crying, which seems completely daft given London is only an hour away, but completely sensical given (up until the age of 14) I used to religiously cry at the end of every holiday. At the risk of sounding very middle class, I often wonder if my parents bought the holiday cottage in Devon just to shut me up.

13 months in London was always going to compare differently to a week holiday in Norfolk or a two week vacation to Florida. It had started off as a tick box exercise, a short fling to make my CV look better, but it had turned into something so much more substantial than that. Lustful, if not a bit abusive, at times, but an all-consuming affair nonetheless. A chapter was closing, the future was blurry and the things I loved most (the museums, the experiences, the local coffee shop), their accessibility was slipping through my fingers before my very eyes. Can anyone blame a girl for getting emotional?

Looking back on it now, I can fully understand why I’d been so caught in culture shock on moving back to Swindon the year before. All the young professionals, the culture, the high-flying men tripping over themselves to get to know me. And Swindon…just Swindon. That feeling of deep loneliness.

Over time I got over this. Writing was my saviour (as always). The time I used to spend visiting art galleries or on dates or lying in bed sick with frequent migraines, I started to invest that time into doing what I loved most. I told myself that it was okay to not be constantly booked up, that sometimes I needed to offer myself the luxury of a night off.

‘As long as I remember,’ I thought, glancing down at the cactus in my bag as the train gently hummed.

**

Our speed was increasing rapidly; another sign that we were escaping the clutches of the capital. It was around the time we hit Slough that I thought about a clip from the hit British TV show The Office

And reading my humble book I smiled to myself, the idea that London could be a bit of a David Brent character when it wanted to be; full of itself and now irritated. Despite four days of passion I was still going scurry back to that poxy little town in the middle of nowhere, back to Swindon.

I looked up from my book and out across the green hills that distinguished the world outside the M25 motorway, musing on many different things. The sun was shining, its setting rays feeling warm against my skin. I closed my eyes and thought deeply of all the things I’m lucky to have in my life. Health, family, a home, a job. And in there somewhere, deep within the list, the ability to visit London whenever I wished. That I’d had the chance to live it fully and now had the luxury of keeping the city on a tight leash. London could have me, but going forward it would be on my terms and my terms alone.

A song sprung to mind and then, as if from nowhere, I heard myself aloud as I started whispering the lyrics against the cold, cold glass.

‘So-called Mr. rock and roll, is dancing on his own again.

Talking on his phone again, to someone who tells him that his balance is low.

He’s got nowhere to go, he’s on his own again…’

**

Places visited (in order):

Nb – I was not paid to visit any of the above, adding links for reference

**

London Recalling Series:

Part One – Straight Lesbians, Like Us

Part Two – The Creative’s Curse

Part Three – Solo Sell-Outs

Part Four – Wapping Old Stairs

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London Recalling…Solo Sell-Outs

Well things are really not going my way, are they? Just when I think I’m starting to shake this illness off, boom! Tonsillitis.

Given breathing state is a bit wheezy I’ll have to try and not get too ahead of myself when typing in hurried excitement. That’ll be the hardest part, just like when my teachers used to tell me off for smudging ink all over the page and up my hand. They never really did see the other side, that I couldn’t help it. That I was so keen to write everything down in my head, too impatient to let the ink to dry.

Bruise on the leg has near vanished too, so at least my body is still capable of some level of self healing.

London Recalling

This post follows Part 2, The Creative’s Curse

Part 3, Solo Sell-Outs

It was that very same night as the Sofar Sounds gig that I experienced my minor calf injury. After the meal in Wapping I found myself casually wandering around St. Katharine Docks, a delightful patch of water and wealth next to Tower Bridge. Where rich people flaunt their yachts and people like me walk along raised walkways; enjoying the chance to look down at privilege. It’s also the location for one of my favourite views of London, where Tower Bridge appears from nowhere as a mighty giant of architecture.

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At this time the light was lacking, so I decided I’d return another day to take the above photograph.

There had been a steady drizzle of rain throughout the afternoon, causing the paths and walkways to be more slippy than usual. While the Underground stations blared the same warning to passengers over and over again, on a near silent Sunday night in January the message was perhaps less ingrained in my head as I strolled around the Marina.

Eventually the expected happened, walking down a flight of concrete steps in my flat, sodden, pump shoes, my foot skidded on the slippery surface and I tumbled forward. Thankfully I was near to the bottom, my hands jutted out of my pockets just in time to break my fall down the two or three steps remaining of the flight. My calf however suffered their bite, the impact of these remaining ledges grazing their teeth along the bone, from foot to knee.

It was too dark for anyone to see, too quiet for anyone to notice, too quick for anyone to spot; within half a second of me falling flat in a heap I’d hopped back onto my feet and carried on my way. It was only later when I got back to the hotel I discovered the full impact of the fall was more substantial than I’d originally thought. Lesson learnt; I kept my hands of out my pockets and tread more carefully for the rest of the trip.

**

Monday morning, and now it felt like the time was all mine to play with. Done were the previously agreed engagements, the catch-ups and the pre-booked tickets, now I had the freedom to do whatever I wanted while the rest of the city got back to work.

From my bedroom window I watched the suited men and women in their designer shoes and trainers as they all scuttled in the same direction, towards the heart of the financial district. It drew me back to all those times before when I’d walked the very same path, head down, headphones plugged in.

In amongst the crowd I saw one individual less sure of themselves, less familiar with the route they were taking. They reminded me of myself all that time ago, those first few days where impatient workers would dodge and tut as I stopped frequently to check the direction of travel I was headed in.

Back in the present I knew my place, I would only head out after the walking rush-hour had ceased; after 09:00 when the world was a little calmer on foot.

**

I’d never been to the Museum of London which had always struck me as odd given it was one of the few tourist attractions I’d seen so frequently day-to-day working in The City. It’s imposing lettering on the side of a large brutalist wall that trailed around a roundabout and off towards the Barbican.

Deciding there is always a first time for everything, I skirted around a large school party waiting outside and dived into the building to get a head start on the exhibits.

The first thing that struck me was the music playing loudly across the speakers. The sound of punk music overflowing into exhibitions on prehistoric London seemed initially a strange pairing, until I realised that it formed part of a temporary exhibit on The Clash’s 1979 album London Calling. The album was playing on a loop to help draw people in. As I walked past staff members I wondered how many repeats of the title track would it take before they grew sick of such an iconic band.

The music stayed in my head long after I left the museum. I may have seen some wonderful artefacts and learnt a lot about London’s rich history, but it would be the feeling of seeing Paul Simonon’s broken guitar in real life that would come to brand the entire city-break. I’d never been an avid follower of the Punk movement, but the first time I understood it a little better. I was able to appreciate it for what it represented; the first act of civil disobedience, the first time youth made a strong impact. “No, we will not be silenced!”

**

From the Museum of London I skirted on down past St Paul’s cathedral, through the buzzing crowds of tourists and across the Millennium Footbridge to reach the banks of Southwark. In my sights I had my favourite branch of Caffe Nero; one located in Oxo Tower, but before I could reach it I caught myself on an installation placed outside the Tate Modern. A walk in cuboid-like structure, hung with column upon column of white paper cups (save a couple of black columns at the front).

‘We use 5,555 paper cups a minute in the UK,’ the sign read. ‘Oh which only 555 are recycled.’

I took a step back and, like a few of the passers by, were moved by how explicit the instillation was in showcasing the amount of waste in this country. However, what was equally striking was how the majority of people had responded to the stand-alone piece. All around people were scribbling messages onto the paper cups; some were deeply emotive on the destruction of the planet, others as two-dimensional as a statement that someone had been there, like lover’s hearts engraved on trees. Whether or not the artists has intended their work to be graffitied in this way, it seemed there was no stopping it, the piece had only been erected for a matter of days and yet was already covered in human sentiment.

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A ballpoint pen burning in my handbag, I walked forwards and scouted out a suitable cup to make my mark. Not entirely sure what to write, I eventually scribbled down some words. I stepped back to admire my work, only to find myself cringing at the terrible handwriting and the surrealness of the wording. It was missing something.

I pulled out one of my business cards from my bad and, with the help of a few drawing pins and some blu tac, I attached the small square of card to the small paper cup. ‘Yes,’ I thought. ‘That looks better.’

The final inscription read:

Alice E. Bennett, 27/01/20. Mermaids do exist and they can’t survive in our polluted oceans. Instead they are forced into moving to Swindon!

(After attaching the card I also added the words, ‘get curious’.)

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I took a couple of photos before moving on. As I walked away I realised a few people had been stood watching me the whole time as I awkwardly attached my card to the cup. An international tourist was quick to swoop in to give it a read, though I felt quite certain they wouldn’t have the faintest idea what I was on about, I barely knew myself.

Whether I had intended it to look that way or not, I’d effectively sold out on an environmental protest.

**

I strategically placed one of my ‘duff’ business cards (ones which were printed with a spelling mistake) under the empty coffee cup as I walked out of Caffe Nero, the space somewhat busier than I expected for a Monday lunchtime. I retraced my steps and entered the Tate Modern just as the heaven’s opened and it started to pour with rain.

‘Better take my time, then!’ I thought to myself, making my way into the turbine hall to admire the dramatic water fountain, Fons Americanus, created by American artist Kara Walker.

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I strolled around several of the art galleries, in truth I saw this as a mere fill-in experience for old time’s sake. It’s funny how spoilt you can become when you experience something everyday, in that very moment I only sought out a quick hit whereas for many this would be the highlight of their day or even their trip, to London.

A number of the galleries hadn’t changed since the times I’d been there and for me that felt bothersome, like the Tate was being lazy and people were being cheated out of an experience. But then a quick survey of the people visiting at that moment in time reminded me that for most they knew no different, they were just like me that very first time I’d entered the old factory. Just as fascinated, just as keen to photograph. I knew the issue lay more with me than anyone else; so I put my internal-tantrum to one side and took myself to a different part of the establishment.

I will spare you the War and Peace version of how I view art, but on this visitation I seemed to feel a stronger feeling of hate, divide but also a call from artists to remember we are all human. I suppose it’s not a surprise, artists always have had a reputation for expressing more liberal sentiments than other segments of society. But watching Igor Grubic’s video East Side Story where far-right extremists attack a Pride match with bloody consequences, it felt like the message was stronger now than it ever had been before.

(Warning: video below contains strong language, violence, and homophobic language.)

And then there was hope; that if we recognised the contributions of others we could be a part of something much greater than if we work in isolation. Nowhere else did I see this more strongly than in Yinka Shonibare’s The British Library, a room installation which makes the point of showing how fundamental other cultures, notably African, have played a role in shaping English literature.

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A room of books, each covered in bold and heavily patterned fabric, all the colours of Heaven and Earth itself. Not in such a long time had I found myself at pains to stand behind the thin bit of wire that prevented me from reaching out to touch, to feel, the books before my eyes.

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**

The rain still coming down in medium sized droplets, I hurried across Blackfiars bridge back onto the Northern bank and then, from there, Northwards to reach Trafalgar Square. When I’m set on an idea I can become really stubborn to it, even if it makes absolutely no logical sense to anyone else. In this instance I’d got my heart set on a visit to the National Gallery before it closed at 18:00. I left the Tate Modern at 15:00 which, factoring in travel time, would give me a safe two hours in the gallery before hitting the Tube to avoid the peak rush hour at 18:00.

Maybe in a bid to avoid the rain outside, the National Gallery was considerably busier than I had expected it to be; an old building full of hot, wet bodies.

I took a quick turn through the galleries, although I found myself stopping and starting multiple times as soon as I came by a suitable seat to perch on. I hadn’t quite factored in how much walking I’d done today, and in fact every other day, until this very moment. Of all the views within and looking out of the building, the best that day came simply from that of a window seat, where I could idly watch people ascend and descend a large staircase built in a recent extension.

Because I’m me, I did find a couple of humourous bites in some of the artworks; including this piece which reminded me of all the times my friends had placed bets on the length of my hangovers:

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And this piece which looked like a screen grab from some type of low-budget documentary. Something along the lines of…”don’t tell me how to raise my kids”.

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However, when all was said an done I found myself surprisingly keener to leave the gallery earlier than I had originally planned in my head. After about an hour of breezing through the classics, I left the National Gallery, breaking my route back only momentarily to stop off in a nearby Waterstones. I couldn’t resist plunging myself down to the basement level to enjoy one of my favourite sensory experiences; the smell of new books.

**

That night I returned once more to St. Katherine Docks to enjoy a meal at the restaurant chain Zizzi. The looks people gave me when I walked in by myself! You’d have thought I had a third arm growing out of my waist! Used to these looks of surprise, curiosity and mild judgement, I pulled out a reading book as the staff placed me on the last free table in the house. I settled down for a chilled Monday night with a glass of wine and good company (i.e. food).

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As I sat there later, sipping on coffee and making it clear to everyone I was in no rush to leave, I pondered on the art works I’d seen throughout the day. From The Clash, to Shonibare, right through to the classical masterpieces in the National Gallery, they had all been individuals not afraid to make their mark and show off their talent to the world. They would never have considered themselves arrogant or forcing their talent on the world. They may have had rocky patches, but they’d always had a firm belief that the route they were taking was the right one, when The Clash coated brick walls with their posters they wouldn’t have worried about what people said or thought. So why did I still on occasion find myself blushing when friends rolled their eyes at me, ‘putting up another business card Alice? You’re such a sell-out!’

Just then a waiter came by, sensing his chance. I reached into my bag and pulled out a card, tapping it swiftly on the hand-held device to make the transaction and ensure the staff hassled me no more.

I opened up my phone case and pulled out one of my business cards from the inside. As I flicked the small piece of card around my finger, reading and rereading the contact details printed on it, I mused on the idea of all artists being sell-outs. That to be and be regarded and accepted as ‘something’ you have to be prepared to stand out; you have to be a peacock in a field of pheasants.

Image result for drawing peacock

I lifted myself from my seat, applying my coat onto my back in a sweeping movement. I cried out to the remaining staff who responded with a polite smile.

‘Thank you! Have a good evening!’

And then, just as I picked up by bag from the floor, I placed a business card brazenly on the table before walking out into the darkness with a secret smile on my face.

We’ve all got to start somewhere.

**

Places visited (in order):

NB – I was not paid to visit any of the above, adding links for reference.

**

London Recalling Series:

Part One – Straight Lesbians, Like Us

Part Two – The Creative’s Curse

Part Three – Solo Sell-Outs

Part Four – Wapping Old Stairs

Did you enjoy this content? Please buy me a coffee to say thanks by clicking here: Buy Me A Coffee

 

London Recalling…The Creative’s Curse

Okay, so my cold seems to have moved onwards and upwards…from my throat to my head. God I hate it when I’m constantly full of headache, I feel so useless! The bruising on my leg seems to not be quite so obvious now, although I knocked it against a table leg this evening and am very much reminded it’s still there.

While the painkillers are doing their job I best crack on with giving purpose to my life, before the throbbing returns and I’m back to lying in a dark room with music by Norah Jones being the only thing I can tolerate as comforting.

London Recalling

This post follows Part 1, Straight Lesbians Like Us

Part 2, The Creative’s Curse

On parting Cherice at Angel station in Islington, I dashed across London with enough time to check into my hotel near Tower Bridge.

‘I’m going to put you on the quiet side of the hotel,’ the receptionist informed me with a smile.

‘Thank you, that’s very kind,’ I replied, although I felt quite sure it came just as much down to which standard rooms were still free at 18:00 as much as anything else.

I’d already booked tickets to see Matilda that evening, giving me a generous 45 minutes to get back, make a speedy tea and then head out again in time to get to the theatre and collect tickets before the 19:30 start.

I’d stopped by a branch of Doughnut Time earlier in the day and the oversized, over sweetened, Biscoff treat ended up being the perfect solution to my limited time to source an alternative meal. I polished off the item while in the background I stuck the TV onto the only semi-passable, non-committal program basic Freeview had to offer.

‘Why did I ever like this film?’ I pondered as I tried to negotiate the challenges of eating a messy foodstuff out of the cardboard box. ‘What year was this film? 1999? Wow, that would be why.’

No time to change, I emptied my handbag of unnecessary items, grabbed a bag of sweets for the road and headed out into the night.

Once I got to the theatre and found my seat I was pleasantly surprised by the view.

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As I later remarked to a work colleague, one of the few benefits of attending on a Saturday night alongside a number of families – no issues with tall people in front!

I won’t bore or ruin the details of the production, but safe to say I could very much see why the show was exported from my beloved home town of Stratford Upon Avon several years before. It felt good to finally say I’d seen it for myself.

Fast approaching midnight; on returning to the hotel, my last scraps of energy were applied to putting on lounge wear and flopping into bed. Sleep came easier to me than swimming to a fish.

**

The next morning I pulled myself awake with relative ease. I grabbed my watch off the nightstand, 9:00. The downside of thick curtains; the room was just as dark now as it had been in the early hours of the morning.

I already knew where I wanted to go; the Columbia Road flower market in Hoxton only happens on a Sunday morning and I had fond memories of being in the middle of the hubbub of those who flock to the street to buy exotic plants from strange lands far beyond the Thames.

More familiar with the route I used to take from my old stomping ground, Wapping, from Tower Bridge the route was decidedly quicker when taken on foot compared to on Tube…well, in theory it was. Because by the time I’d gone down every side street, studying each passing map like a common tourist, I was the first to accept I was a little lost. But, at only 10:00 most of London had yet to fully wake up and I found myself quite happily riding the wave of confusion as I took in the sights of a slightly less chaotic Brick Lane in the heart of the old East.

**

When I finally arrived at the flower market (spurred on by the sight of people carrying large indoor palm trees), I joined the shuffling crowds. the smells and sounds taking me back to all the times before, the gruff masculine sellers showcasing colourful tulips just as amusing as always.

At the far end of the long street there was a pianist and tap dancer busking to a large collated group of watchers. They, competing against the tradespeople for attention, the tradespeople doing similar as the two parties fought for hard-earned money. It strangely added to the effect, the lady’s tapping feet on the damp tarmac a mesmerising beat to the cries of “two for five pound succulents!”

I purchased a couple of small cacti from a stand, not because I necessarily needed or wanted them in my life, but because they would look nice next to the one I already had in my home in Swindon. A subtle reminder of a moment whenever I made a cup of tea, a way to relieve a memory without anyone else knowing.

As I reached to pick up one of the items off a rack, another cactus pricked me in envy. With the bag tapping against my thigh, I made tracks to find the nearest shop to stock tubes of Savalon balm. Once this had been acquired and applied, I carried on to one of my favourite coffee haunts.

**

‘We don’t do blueberry muffins anymore,’ the barista says bluntly.

‘Oh, well, I guess it has been a year since I last visited. Things change.’ I point to a piece of banana bread to indicate my alternative selection. I hand over my loyalty card, the edges battered and stained from a year in the depths of my purse.

‘We don’t take those anymore, manager had a crack down on them a while ago.’

‘That’s shame,’ I say. While the barista makes my Americano I look down at the small piece of card. Four previous coffees, four stamps that had now amounted to nothing. Still, not like this fifth one would help much towards the free tenth coffee. I put it back in my purse, it still seemed too much to throw it away.

Work in Progress

I set myself up in the window, one of the few people to chose this particular coffee shop as their location of choice on a mild Sunday morning. I carefully placed one of my purchased plants down on the table, rearranging it slightly just as the barista walked over from the counter with my coffee and cake. Not like either of us were in any rush.

About an hour into a session of typing, a swarm of people poured up from the downstairs cellar. Surrounded by a flurry of voices it was impossible not to learn the subject of interest; an artsy film that had been premiered below. Eventually they all vacated and it was service as usual; just me, a couple of bored employees and the words on my screen.

It took a change of a track on the venue’s carefully constructed playlist to realise how long I’d be stationary in the trend-setting shop. I took it as a sign and made my leave.

**

Back at the hotel I dodged past the remaining cleaner trolleys to return to my room, thankful of a slightly longer rest bite to unpack my case properly. I flipped open the lid on a four pack of multi-buy blueberry muffins (small supermarket I’d passed) and happily picked away at its spongy texture as I flicked through an outdated Friday issue the Evening Standard I’d grabbed outside Aldgate East.

In what felt like no time as all I was grabbing my red coat and heading out once more, this time powering towards a Sofar Sounds music gig, hosted in block of flats somewhere deep in Shoreditch. Part of the gig’s charm was the secrecy in location right up until the last minute

**

‘Hey, you!’ I cry out down the street, over the roar of local cars and music blaring from neighbouring flats.

‘Hey!’ My little friend says with a smile, lifting her hood up to expose her dark hair to the rain for the first time. She stares at the metal gate.

‘It’s definitely here, right?’

‘Says so,’ I push the gate open and we enter the complex. ‘Thing is, I have a strong sense of deja vu being here…’

‘You been to many of these things?’ Emily asks, having never attended one of these events before.

‘Sofar Sounds? Yeah, this must be my…’ My eyes shoot upwards as I calculate the number in my head. ‘This is my fourth. Two previously here, one in Swindon.’

I give my name to the lady on the door and she directs us into the block. I recognise the hallway immediately; we’re heading to the same flat I attended before with Cherice.

‘So, what’s the vibe like?’ My friend asks as the lift rattles up four floors.

‘Oh, very friendly. Everyone gets all cosy and watch three acts perform. Some of them are in commercial venues, like bars and galleries, other are like this; people offering up their own homes.’

We knock on the flat door and immediately it shoots open by, I assume, the host. I’d hoped that arriving twenty minutes early would secure us with a greater choice of floor space, however this theory was quickly dashed when the same lady directed us to a large mound of jumbled shoes before permitting us a step further.

We carefully picked our way over several groups before finding a spot to seat ourselves. I laid my coat on the floor and pulled out a bottle of water and snacks, seasoned to the ways of Sofar Sounds.

‘Would you ever offer up your place for this?’ Emily asks.

‘God no!’ I reply. ‘See what people are drinking?’

Emily quickly glossed over the room’s inhabitants, most clutching bottles of beer or small containers of wine. One lady was casually sharing out chicken nuggets between people she’d just met.

‘Now look at the floor,’ I add.

‘It’s laminate.’

‘I think you’ve answered your original question.’

**

After a general introduction, three acts were each introduced to the ‘stage’; a tiny space at front cordoned off with a flimsy string of cheap LED lights.

The room was packed, busier and more overcrowded than the time before. In order to fit in an ever increasing number of ticket holders I found myself having to adopt ever more creative positions to fit my body into the Tetris-like gaps that sprung up and closed as others around me did similar.

Within the performance breaks Emily and I had chance to catch up. I’d spent two years living with her during our University days, going through both the good and rough times life as a student can bring.

I’d seen a kindred spirit in Emily when it came to work. For her dissertation I’d often get woken up in the early hours of the week as she headed to the labs to pull her research; whereas for mine it had resulted in weekends spent living and breathing historical archives to try and locate secretive family information. No one could have ever said we weren’t committed to a goal.

I suppose now, as we both sat in this top floor flat, what changed us was the way in which our studies shaped us. I applied elements of my History degree into jobs with no strong bearing on the subject matter, Emily meanwhile was on a conquest to utilise her education in its purest form. She was in the middle of working through a Masters Degree, whilst holding down a full-time job.

When she’d first told me about it almost two years ago I thought she was mad. Now, hearing her speak so highly on her passion for the subject matter, I could only admire her strength of will all the more.

After act one we stood up to stretch our legs, the guitarist tuning his instruments right before our noses.

‘That’s one to take home,’ I observe light-heartedly. ‘”Ma, he has two guitars!”‘

‘Are you on any dating apps?’ Emily enquires subtly, taking a swig of water from her bottle.

‘Back on Hinge. You remember, the one everyone raved about at improv. event?’

‘Erm…’

I hiss through my teeth. ‘The one with the photo?’

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‘Oh, yeah, that one!’

I pop a couple of gummy sweets in my mouth, quickly chomping on them as I offer some more into the palm of my plus one.

‘Basically, and you’re going to love this, I went to a music gig in Swindon recently with a guy…’

‘A date?’ Emily quickly interjects, the story suddenly taking her interest. I lift my hand to stop her.

‘Don’t, I thought that too. Especially when he offered to pick me up and pay for my ticket.’

‘So what went wrong?’

I sighed, it never got any easier to tell the story. ‘He had a girlfriend.’

‘What?’

‘He said I should have known, that it was obvious he was texting her all night. Well, forgive me for being too distracted by the music and, you know, not being a creep?’ I munch down on another sweet whilst looking into the middle-distance.

‘Weird.’

‘Isn’t it just? But it’s kinda been the closest I’ve had to anything since God knows when and I’ve just reached a stage where I’ve been single for two years, only ever had one relationship…’

‘Was it though?’

I chuckle. ‘Lets not go there. It’ just…just…well, everyone seems to be settling down and it feels like I’m doing anything but. Guys don’t ever seem to be on my level. They all want to worship me or aren’t interested no matter what I do.’

‘Men! But still, what’s wrong with wanting to be worshipped?’

‘Not if it’s suffocating.’

I glanced over the large number of couples in the room and took in a deep breath. ‘I want to be considered an equal, to be with someone who has the same values as me but not afraid to challenge me on them just as much. Sometimes I think I ask too much.’

It was at this point we were encouraged to return to our seated positions for the next act.

**

About two songs into the guitarist’s set I found my mind drifting on the waves of the music. The man was amazing, make no mistake, but with all music that lacks the presence of vocal chords, my creative mind suddenly found the opening to run free.

I caught myself gazing at a couple sat up against the back wall. Hidden in partial darkness and at the furthest reaches of attention and music; the two were deep in whispered conversation, he with an arm around her shoulder and she clutching his spare hand in one of her own. The world around them were merely the backing dancers, extras in their sell-out performance. They couldn’t care less about the quality and type of music their entry ticket had funded.

Then my mind raced forwards to later; I pictured them leaving the flat laughing and running down the street, jovial in manner but a hidden urgency to get to the Tube.

She yanks him into the train carriage just as the doors close, his jacket narrowly missing entrapment. She holds him there, by the t-shirt collar, held in suspense while the carriage rattles and lurches in sudden, jerky, movements, the tracks screeching its siren call. Staring deep into her eyes, the urge in his body tightens; building and building until suddenly it’s too great a feeling to contain. It floods into her as he leans forward and sharply kisses her against the sliding door, just as the train pulls into the station. The woman pushes him back with a giggle, a slight nod to indicate that this is the stop to alight from.

And when they get to the flat, that little compact and scruffy space that could have been theirs for years or hers for weeks; when they finally tumble in, they interlock like time itself is as fleeting as sand in a glass. Her delicate fingers grapple and skilfully undo her partner’s perfectly styled hair with speed as she slowly steps backward to hit the light’s off switch with her oil-slicked palm.

The things that are enacted next, in that dark space warmed by both body and street light, they are the thoughts that cannot be written. How constraining and insufferable the English language can be at the times we need it most.

It’s impossible to say from this angle if the transaction is love, or little more than a sudden flare of lustful hope, but the conclusion reached is just the same. They lie there, on the collapsed mattress with passion-stained sheets, no words needing to be said to dare risk spoiling this brief moment of euphoria.

Her head rests on his body, a long tangle of jet black hair intertwining with that on his chest. Slowly, but surely, the pair drift off into a deep sleep; they have barely said a word to each other since leaving the event.

**

Someone suddenly moves in front of me and in a daze I quickly move one my limbs in the opposite direction. Bad decision, I feel something snap at the back of my left leg followed by sharp pain the full length of the limb. Biting my lip hard to prevent a yelp of pain, I look down and see that my leg must have been in an awkward position for sometime, it almost looks dislocated the angle is so unnatural.

Emily gives me a nudge, the performer has finished his set. I clap along, using the chance to curse under my breath and position myself to stretch my leg out. The pain subsides, even if for a short spell.

I glance up and see the couple on the back wall clapping along as well, although theirs seems more out politeness than in genuine recognition for the man’s talent. I slowly blink and return focus elsewhere.

‘When are you going to finish the book?’ Emily asks me.

**

For those with an interest in producing any form of art having a broad and open mindset is an essential part of our very make up. The ability to see something and pull out a deeper meaning or be inspired to create a new one. When I speak of the Creative’s Curse, I don’t mean to refer to some kind of incurable disease or superstition, more the occasional drawbacks of having a unique skill.

Seeing things you don’t always want to see, creating implausible story lines to fill a void you didn’t even know existed. The sole belief a perfect world lies just beyond one’s fingertips. Sometimes it’s impossible to predict the triggers, sometimes you don’t want to. The irony; my sweet heroin is the thing that keeps me sane. I cannot bear to imagine a world where my creativity, including the occasional bought of Creative’s Curse, was sucked from the very marrow in my bones.

**

I was sat in the local pub later that night, one I used to frequent regularly when I lived only a couple of streets away. With a hand resting across my lap; watching boats speed up and down the dark abyss of the Thames, I heard a woman muttering in the seat behind.

‘I wonder what she’s thinking…’

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**

Places visited (in order):

NB – I was not paid to visit or promote any of the above, adding links for reference.

**

London Recalling Series:

Part One – Straight Lesbians, Like Us

Part Two – The Creative’s Curse

Part Three – Solo Sell-Outs

Part Four – Wapping Old Stairs

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London Recalling…Straight Lesbians, Like Us

I’m sat up in bed, feeling incredibly rough with a head full of cold and a nose full of…stuff. Hot water bottle, chocolate bar wrappers scattered all around (not that I can taste anything) and badly wanting to curl up into a ball and sleep (prevented by a sharp pain in my throat – I might be coming down with tonsillitis again). Oh, and my left calf is covered in bruises, but at least not so swollen.

So how have I got to be in this state? And how come, in a strange turn of events, I don’t mind it quite so much as I would normally?

London Recalling

Part One – Straight Lesbians, Like Us

I rock up to Paddington early on Saturday morning. I am sans coffee and already reminding myself what it was like only a few months ago when dragging an over weighted cabin case was the norm.

‘Where are you?’ I text my friend, although the delivered but not received tick says it all. Still hacking across London on the Underground. When we eventually catch up it’s as if only a week has passed since we saw each other. Two long-time friends who, as luck would have it, met in Swindon in different industries but bonded strongly in London working for rival banks. We hop on the Bakerloo line and speed away towards China Town.

**

‘You know what you’re having?’ Cherice asks me over the top of the menu, a quirky place tucked away behind theatres staging Thriller and Les Miserables.

‘Not sure. Maybe the eggs?’

‘Oh, okay. Because I was thinking the full English…’

‘Thank God you were thinking that as well!’ I exclaim in a garble, just as the waiter comes by.

‘Know what you’re having?’

‘You go first.’ I say to Cherice.

‘No you!’

‘No you!’

‘Well, one of us has to go first.’

‘Fine,’ I put the menu down. ‘The full English, please.’

‘I’ll have the same,’ Cherice adds, handing the menu over. They’ve put us in the window seat, the best seat in the West-End restaurant, the table where they put the cute couples.

I watch group of tourists in protective face masks walk by. ‘Why is it every meal with you turns into a flirtatious date?’

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Cherice laughs her signature laugh, causing everyone to stop for a second to study the source. One of the things I love about her. The waiter agrees with my judgement, rushing forward with my very much needed Americano.

‘You laugh has just brightened my day!’ He chirps, leaving Cherice to squirm under the attention. I roll my eyes.

‘Every time I take you out. Just like the time in Dalston,’ I sigh. ‘When the waitress thought we were on our anniversary. Remember? When you gave me the chocolates for my birthday and she said it was cute of you to treat me to Hotel Chocolat?’

**

We’ve often spoken at length about how life would be so much easier if we could date. Cherice, with her 100 egg diet and cross-fit, in the old days it was enough to convince me I was the more effeminate one in our pairing. Then London happened and I decided the only thing separating us in that regard was that I was the more decisive one, the one more likely to be more assertive, less caring what others thought. Now, as Cherice literally held my hand on every Tube change my thoughts were scattered again.

‘I know how to board the Tube, Cherice!’

‘You’d have left your case in the restaurant if it wasn’t for me! Do you even know where we are?’

‘Urm…London?’

‘You trust me that much? I could have taken you anywhere!’

‘Cherice, a stranger in bookshop could have promised to take me to the British Museum and I would have followed. You said we were going to the Wellcome Collection and here I am.’

I was at this point I directed Cherice to our mutual favourite series, You (FYI – I still can’t bring myself to watch season two, because…well…I am far too drawn to Joe and discovered my online life is far too relatable to Beck’s. Also, I get bad bookshop envy.)

‘Fair enough.’

We walked around the collection, idly laughing about the medicinal equipment (knew the GCSE would eventually come in use) and watched children playing around some of the kid-friendly exhibits.

‘Kids don’t have the space to roam like they used to,’ Cherice pointed to a diagram. ‘Me and my brother were allowed to wonder around massive areas growing up.’

‘In Croydon?’

‘Yes,’ she says flatly. Our extremes of surroundings growing up has always been a topic of immense bewilderment to the other.

‘I guess it was similar for me,’ I say, looking again at the satellite image. ‘Not the urban environment, but the space to be able to be me. I lived in the middle of nowhere, nothing but fields as far as the eye can see.’

‘Didn’t it ever drive you mad? Having nothing to do?’

‘Not at all!’ I counter. ‘Some people create imaginary friends, I created imaginary worlds to escape into.’

‘Ah, so that’s why you’re like you are?’

‘Maybe. Depends if it’s a good thing or not!’

We pop our heads into an exhibit on the power of water, splitting up briefly before Cherice returns to find me watching a surreal video of a McDonalds slowly flooding.

‘Water is bloody scary, man.’

‘Cherice, pigeons scare you and you’ve lived in London your whole life.’

‘Yeah, but it’s the destruction water can do. Why are you still watching it? It’s depressing.’

‘It’s strangely fascinating though, don’t you think? Slow TV, but with undertones of climate awareness. Makes you wonder, where are the humans? Where is the water coming from? It’s only depressing to you because of the conclusions your own head is reaching. See, it says right here that it was all set up, it’s not even a real restaurant. Wow, the effort that people put into art, eh?’

‘Suit yourself,’ Cherice shrugs as she says this. Like anyone who has ever visited an art gallery with me, you give me an inch…

‘…Then again I used to stare at pieces in the Tate Modern for ages until I was able to force myself into finding some deeper meaning,’ I ponder aloud. ‘Anyway, shall we go somewhere else?’

‘Sure,’ Cherice says gladly as we walk away together.

‘There is one thing though that bothers me about that video…’

‘What?’

‘Well, the description says the only audio is the sound of water. When did water sound like that?’

**

We next went to a couple of Riverside bars near King’s Cross.

‘There’s more to King’s Cross than the station?’ I exclaim.

‘How the hell did you survive here for a year?’

‘I live off £7.50 a week, maybe £9 at a push.’

‘How are you still alive?’

I ignored the question. ‘This mocktail is almost double my weekly food budget when I was living here full time. You really think I was hanging out at places like this? You think I ever travelled as far out as this for what is effectively a lemon juice?’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Besides, I always got the guys to take me to Shoreditch.’

‘Alice Elizabeth Bennett!’

‘What? One of them was a Programme Manager on Crossrail! Not like those guys ever seemed short of money…’

Cherice paid for our drinks, including the service charge, before we both scampered out.

‘Jesus, how much did you just pay on service charge?’ I scoffed. ‘You didn’t even like that drink! The waitress gave us evils the whole time!’

Cherice laughed. ‘I know, what am I like?’

‘No wonder you London lot are all skint, you keep paying for crappy service because you’re too embarrassed to say no.’

‘Well…’

‘Remember the time in the Korean chicken place where I told the waitress I wasn’t paying the 12.5%?’

‘Yeah, I admired you so much.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But I also couldn’t go back there again for a few months.’

I sighed. ‘Oh, look, book barge!’

Cherice could see me jumping from foot to foot, like a child desperate for the toilet. ‘Go on…’

‘What?’

‘I know you, you want to photo it for your blog.’

‘No I don’t…I just want it for…personal reasons. It’s a pretty boat.’

I was lying, but we both knew this.

‘Just take the photo and we can move on.’

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**

We ambled over to another cocktail bar, one with an amazing 70s theme and a DJ playing retro tracks to match.

‘I want to be this bar when I grow up,’ I thought, looking around at the interior decorations.

Cherice meanwhile was having a moment with her Old Fashioned.

‘You okay, there?’ I smirked.

‘It’s just…amazing.’

‘Question,’ I start. ‘Would you take a date here?’

‘Of course! The drinks are so good!’

‘Agreed, but doesn’t that make it a negative?’ I take a sip on my gin cocktail, the taste swarms around my mouth. I blow out a short stream of air. ‘Like that, right there. I’m having a better time with my drink right now then anything else.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Yeah, but don’t you think it’s a bit of a distraction? Aren’t you meant to talk to people on dates?’

Cherice shrugged. ‘You tell me.’

‘I haven’t dated anyone since I left London in May, you tell me.’

‘The men haven’t changed, Alice! There’s still none!’ She thumped her glass on the table.

‘Woah! That alcohol is really going to your head, huh?’

‘…It is. I think I’m going to go freshen up.’

‘Okay b…’ I stop myself mid-word.

‘You can call me bae if you want.’

‘Really? We’ve reached that level of our relationship?’ I shout across the room in joy. Seeing the general reaction from other consumers I quickly turn around. Maybe I was a little tipsy too.

‘You okay there?’

‘Jesus Christ!’ I shout in surprise at the most retro looking server to have ever existed.

‘Sorry!’ I quickly add. ‘Didn’t see you.’

Ironic, given his orange floral top and beautifully styled beard, he was the most obvious man in the whole bar. He smiled, clearly finding the comment amusing as well.

‘Did you and your friend want anything else?’

‘I think we’re good, thanks.’

**

I quickly followed suit after Cherice returned, admiring the record covered walls in awe when the retro waiter appeared out of a cubicle.

‘Here,’ he held the door open for me. ‘This one is free.’

‘Oh, thanks,’ I duck under his arm and close the door. I stared at the back of the door and pondered some of the big questions for any woman to consider in her life.

‘Do I like beards now? I wonder what they feel like? Come to think about it, does this count as flirting in the modern age? Did 70s Henry Cavill just flirt with me? And why am I standing here when I need to pee?’

**

‘Sorry, there was good music playing in the toilet. Was too busy Shazaming the hell out of the space,’ I say as I grab my coat from the back of the seat.

‘Wow,’ my friend replies as she lifts herself from the padded seat.

I do a half-second rain check. ‘I’m both sorry to myself and our entire generation that my statement isn’t nearly what it would have meant ten years ago.’

After that we agreed that there was still time for another coffee, but Cherice couldn’t decide whether to take me to Paddington in West London or Angel in Islington.

‘Any preference?’

‘I think I once got stood up by a guy who lived in Angel…’

‘Angel it is!’

We searched around for a coffee shop, most filling up quickly down the expensive boutique shop-lined streets. I paused outside a wedding dress shop.

‘What are you looking at?’ Cherice asked.

‘That’s an ugly dress,’ I observed. ‘It’s see-through all the way to her crotch! And the bit in the middle, see through again!’

‘Someone will buy it,’ Cherice commented. ‘Take it that’s not you?’

‘Jesus no! Weddings are so expensive. Why not use the money on something like a holiday or a house?’

‘…You already own a house.’

‘You know what I mean. It’s just like Valentine’s day with the overpriced roses that wilt. What’s wrong with other flowers anyway? Or just going out another night? Or even better, nothing at all. I’d rather have a toasted sandwich.’

‘Has anyone ever told you you’d be the perfect girlfriend?’

‘Hah! Bless you. No, I’m not perfect, I’m like bloody Sea Monkeys.’

‘Sea Monkeys?’

‘Yeah, you have to keep feeding me or else I will float around. That or literally start burning rice and then end up contracting rickets. It’s not a great look.’

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‘Wait, how do you even burn…’

‘I’d really rather not relive the trauma, Cherice. Now bear with me, I need to stick one of my business cards on this noticeboard.’

We eventually found somewhere with enough space to fit us in. Cherice had a tea, I was on yet more coffee. We hung out there for a bit longer, and chatted through my friend’s plans to move to Canada. I suppose for her, having grown up and worked in London nearly her entire life, moving to another continent is just a big a step as it was for me choosing to move to London all that time ago. Still didn’t make it any easier to accept though.

‘How long are you staying in Swindon?’ She asked, putting the focus of conversation once again back on me. I’d rather she didn’t, I much preferred her telling me all the amazing reasons why I should move to Canada myself.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, really, what’s keeping you there, in Swindon?’

‘Well…I…’

‘There are no men, your family aren’t there, your friends…’

‘My friends are all over the world! Some can’t seem to keep still…’

Cherice chuckles. ‘My bad. But really, would you consider moving elsewhere?’

‘I do miss London…’

‘No!’ Cherice cries suddenly, almost knocking her soy milk over. ‘You romanticised this place, that’s your problem! Thinking London is just one big culture trip with nice dresses and fancy men in bars.’

‘Well…’

‘Remember how miserable that flat made you? With the black mould? Do I need to make the same sounds as your flatmate?’

‘Please, God, no!’ I jump in, almost grabbing her arm. ‘The only way to make her and her boyfriend stop was to play Baby Shark against the wall on full blast FIVE…TIMES..A…NIGHT. Do you have any idea how much that screws a woman up?’

‘Exactly! No, you don’t want to come here. You’d be better off in Bristol.’

‘Bristol?’

‘Yeah, Bristol.’

‘Didn’t expect you to say that.’

‘Or Bath.’

‘Not Bath.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, aside from the lack of jobs, everyone is really snooty. I was on a night out there once when, outside a kebab shop, this guy started slating off Swindon. Not a gentle poking fun, but on his high horse level. Asking me why I hadn’t married my brother already or whether I could count to ten.’

‘Okay…’

‘Anyway, so you know me, when I’ve had a bit to drink I get super friendly or super verbal-sarcastic-aggressive. There was only so much I could take.’

‘Where is this going?’

‘Well, eventually I snapped and said “fine, you tell me all about your three-bed townhouse in the centre of Bath then!”‘

‘Wow.’

‘My friend had a mouthful of food and from the surprise at my sudden bluntness she covered this smartly dressed toff in half-chewed wrap, complete with halloumi and lettuce. It was beautiful.’

Cherice laughs.

‘We then made a quick getaway. I got to the rank, hailed a taxi and yelled at my friend to get in the car. She followed me in, not realising that it was me until the last second. My own friend swooned with my dominance.’

I raised a hand in mock charm, although Cherice by this stage had become less engaged in the story, trying to pour out the last dregs of loose leaf tea into her cup.

‘…Sorry, what were we talking about?’ She asks.

‘You know what, I can’t remember.’ I paused for a second while my friend kindly paid for yet another round of drinks.

‘Cherice?’

‘Yes?’

‘…Remind me again why we aren’t lesbians?’

Image result for angel london

**

Places visited (in order):

Balans SoHo Society, SoHo

Doughnut Time, SoHo

Wellcome Collection, Euston

The Lighterman, King’s Cross

Word on the Water, King’s Cross

Spiritland, King’s Cross

Brother Marcus, Angel

NB – we were not paid to visit any of these establishments, adding links for general reference.

**

London Recalling Series

Part One – Straight Lesbians, Like Us

Part Two – The Creative’s Curse

Part Three – Solo Sell-Outs

Part Four – Wapping Old Stairs

 

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Lunch Break Scribbles: The Naivety of Youth

As well as other things taking shape in my life I’m also enrolled on a writing course, for which I have to submit exercises as well as sections of my novel for review. Each exercise is marked in isolation, so it’s great for giving me the freedom and discipline to write hyper-fiction (self-contained stories less than 1000 words in length).

One weekday lunchtime at work (i.e. in an hour) I wrote “The Naivety of Youth”, a first draft of a story that places sensory experience at the heart of scene setting.

While not the finished article, I wanted to make a point of how important regular breaks are. I hear so often people say that they’re either too busy or they simply don’t know what to do with themselves so don’t take the time out.

In the UK you are entitled, by law, to an unpaid break by your employer (length dependant on your contracted hours). Don’t squander the opportunity to look after your mental health, if I can write the below in an hour, then there’s no excuse! You’d be amazed what you can achieve in even thirty minutes.

**

The Naivety of Youth (First Draft)

Declan landed three hard knocks on the chipped plywood door. The sound bounded around the room behind, a hollow chamber of noise swiftly chased by the crackled voice of the flat’s tenant.

                ‘I’m coming, I’m coming!’

                There was the jingle of a chain and a shunt of a bolt before the old woman pulled the door open ajar to greet her visitor.

                ‘Who are you?’

                ‘I’m Declan, I recently moved into the flat a next door…’

                ‘What are you selling?’

                ‘I’m not selling anything, I just…’

                ‘Then why didn’t you ring the doorbell?

                Declan glanced to the left. The doorbell of which the lady referred to was caked in deep dirt and grime, he hadn’t even been aware of its existence.

                ‘I tried but it didn’t work,’ he lied. ‘Thing is, I’ve been relocated here and I don’t know anyone. Can I come in? I’ve got some leftover cake from work.’ He lifted the cheap blue bag, its colour imposing on the dark brown corridor it swung against.

                The old lady looked the man up and down several times and eyed up the bag before grumbling and permitting Declan inside. Using her walking stick for support, she waddled across the square room and flicked on a light switch before approaching Declan and making a gesture at the bag. He politely handed it into her vicious grasp that made the plastic scrunch up in recoiled submission. As she headed toward the kitchenette Declan decided to make himself more comfortable and placed a hand on a sofa that faced an old box TV set.

                ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’

                ‘Ruby!’ Came the muffled response. The lady was too busy staring into an empty cupboard.

                ‘It’s a…err…nice place you’ve got here…’ Declan lowered himself onto the collapsed sofa, his bum tensing and reshuffling momentarily when he happened upon a broken spring.

                ‘Don’t try softening me up, boy, I know it’s a dump.’

                Ruby placed the half-eaten cake on the stained coffee table and shoved a plate into the hands of Declan. Even though it had the appearance of being clean it still felt sticky beneath his fingers.

                ‘Is this what you call a welcome gift?’

                ‘Well, I did say it was the leftovers from work.’

                ‘You never said such thing!’

                ‘I’m sure I did?’

                ‘Are you calling me a liar now?’ Ruby took the cake knife and jabbed it toward Declan. Declan instinctively jolted backwards in such speed the firm backboard of the chair cracked with the impact. Ruby cackled at the scene just as Declan bent forward in pain.

                ‘I’m not gonna stab you! Young people, so gullible…’

                ‘I’m thirty-four years old.’

                ‘You’re young,’ Ruby said decisively. ‘Now, eat this cake I’ve made you.’

                Declan decided to not challenge Ruby’s assertion, deciding that acceptance was an easier path to take. As he bit into the stale sweetness of the baked item he became aware of how dry the air was in the space between he and Ruby. It sucked whatever moisture was in his throat, it burned at his eyes. When he helped himself to the water jug he found the result even worse; the chemically treated liquid tasted of metal mixed with cleaning fluid as it fell down his gullet in haste. The air dried where the water scorched, the two worked in unison to make the effects of the other worse.

                It was when Declan stopped to look at Ruby that he realised the old woman hadn’t said a word this entire time, nor had she tasted the cake. Instead she’d quietly sat in her faded floral armchair; knife resting on lap, an unnatural smile playing on her lips.

                ‘Do you like the cake?’

                Declan suddenly fell to the floor, scrabbling at the stained beige carpet. With his knuckles he pushed back the rag rug and saw for the first time large red patches of stained blood under it. As he gasped and spluttered Ruby kicked him back so the rug returned to its rightful place.

                ‘I keep a tight ship around here, boy, one of which being the importance of keeping the flat next door clear of people like you.’

                Declan tried to utter a response, a plea, but nothing came out.

                ‘P…p…p…’

                The frail, tiny lady towered over Declan, watching and observing his slow demise. It was only sometime later a clanging buzz pieced the stillness of the room.

                ‘Open up!’ Boomed the deep voice.

                Ruby looked from the direction of the noise back to Declan’s tangled body. The corpse’s blood had started dribbling from his nose, falling onto the carpet with a muted pat, pat.

                ‘I told you,’ she stated flatly. ‘You should have rung the doorbell.’

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New Year, Less Me

I’ve kicked of my 2019 in true style, by having a piece of my skull yanked out of socket. That’s right, on the third day of this year I got so bored of life in 2019 that I chose to have a second wisdom tooth removed (sorry 2019, but you really need to up your game).

For those less familiar with my life, you’ll find the delightful account of my last wisdom tooth extraction that took place back in 2016 here. I suppose the main difference between the circumstance of that experience and this is that the first wisdom tooth to be removed was a delightful little critter that was burrowing a hole into the side of my cheek. I was doubled over in absolute pain the day I stumbled into a private clinic to have an emergency removal (thanks massively to Mumma Bennett who scouted out the surgery on my behalf). The wisdom tooth being removed this time round who I will fondly as ‘Left Upper Eight’ had been giving me grief for some years now, but nothing quite like the previous tooth that had being trying to burst out of my cheek, Baby Alien style. Left Upper Eight liked to keep me on my toes, a mouth ulcer here and there, an odd antibiotic-fixing infection every so often to keep me on my toes, but day to day little more than an occasional jab to remind me of its existence.

After a particularly challenging couple of weeks around Christmas time I finally made the decision to be done with Upper Eight’s tricks and be rid of him/her/it(?) for good. It says a lot that top of my New Year to do list was call the London surgery to book in an examination and removal.

I’d had this done before, so waiting for my appointment didn’t bother me in the same way as it had done the years before. Course, the private dentist’s waiting room had had large leather seats and played Heart radio which you could listen to with an selection of Women’s Weeklies. The NHS waiting room at my London dentist is none of these things, but then it’s also less than half the price for what it clinically defines as Band Two treatment. Besides, who really cares about their horoscope for the week when they’re about to have a surgical drill put in their mouth? A Christmas present guide on the Top 111 Coffee Shops in London will do the job.

I was told to go down to the dentist, an unusual experience for this dentistry as in all my previous dentist surgeries I’d become acquainted with nurses leading me through to the chair itself. Pros of this mean no need for that awkward small talk that you have to make both sufficient and short enough to fill the ten second gap from waiting room to dentist, the con is that on this occasion I found myself walking hesitantly down into the basement area of the surgery where my dentist was ready and waiting. When going for a check-up it’s bright and breezy, but knowing you’re going to have a tooth extracted makes you feel a bit uneasy. I had to remind myself that I wasn’t going down to the hull of a ship where the dentist was little more than a drunk sailor with a saw. I put on my best normal look as I walked into the room.

“How are you Alice?” The dentist asked.

“I’m here to get a tooth removed that’s making me miserable in a procedure that short term will make me even more miserable. How do you think I feel?” I thought to myself, nut instead I said…

“Alright, I’ve been better.”

He went through the procedure and I smiled and nodded throughout as he explained the potential complications. To cover his own back, that I was sure of, although the complications became increasing gruesome. I started to squirm in my seat, the private dentist had never informed me of any potential complications before.

“And finally there’s a risk the removal of the bone can cause a hole in the sinus. Why does that cause an issue you ask…”

“I didn’t” I thought.

“Well that means when you eat food could get up your nose because the two spaces would become one. I’d stitch it though, you wouldn’t even be aware of me doing that if it happened.”

“Yippee for that” said the dry voice my head as I outwardly smiled pleasantly. Sat in the chair I forced myself to sign the form to give this man full control over something I was beginning to regret choosing. Maybe the antibiotics weren’t so bad.

Sparing all the details of what happened (more because I was both thankfully unaware due to the local aesthetic and having my eyes tightly shut) about ten minutes later, if that, I opened my eyes with a lump of surgical gauze in my mouth and the offending tooth laid bare on a tray. When asked if I wanted to keep it the drugs, gauze and moment itself made my response usual and typically Alice.

“You’re cute.” I said to the tooth. From the corner of my eye I could see the dentist and the nurse exchanging a look. I studied its shape and yellowed colour from the long hook that that previously sat below the gum line. It really wasn’t cute.

“So you want to keep it?” The dentist repeated, slight bafflement in his voice. Clearly I was one of a minority to take such interest in a tooth, at least one of the few people over the age of 11.

Sense returned to me. “Err, actually no, it’s alright.” As drawn as I was to the tooth I remembered I had plenty of other functioning teeth in my mouth to marvel at. The drugs and the moment itself started to wear off, to be replaced with a new sensation in my mouth that made me keen to release myself from the small white room.

“You’ll start feeling pain in the jaw area where the tooth has been extracted, that’s normal.” The Dentist said, before going through the aftercare process. I signed the last form, thanked the man for removing the tooth but took leave my leave quickly. I returned to the flat thankful that its emptiness meat I could groan through the gauze, my pain explicit but implicit to me and myself only.

Which puts me where I am now, currently working through a post surgery recovery plan to get me back to my normal-ish self. There have been ups and downs, downs with the pain, the unable to drink coffee until it is barely warm, unable to eat solid or large meals. Ups when the pain killers kick in and feeling neutral is a blessing, when I get over the foul taste and the salt water temporarily eases the soreness. My tongue has yet to reach that curious stage when it’ll explore that side of the mouth and find the crater that exists where Left Upper Eight used to be. In repulsion the oral muscle will then swiftly retreat back to its former position where it’ll remain in hiding for several weeks. It happened before and it’ll happen again, I just know it.

I’m glad to be rid of my second wisdom tooth and long term know I will look at this as a good decision to make in my life. Short term pain for long term gain as the gym freaks would say. Ironically I’ve been told to stay away from vigorous exercise for at least a week, so I guess that’ll be my excuse for eating cakes and hanging out in coffee bars for the time being.

What can I say? New Year, less me.

 

One Day, One Arm

Well this is a new one for me. Today I went to the doctors and, uninteresting story made short, my left arm was pumped full of stuff. Long term it’s great, but short term it doesn’t half make my life fun.

Said arm is currently in a state of varying nagging pain. Not insufferable, but not ignorable either. It’s a bit like walking through a field of sugar-coated stinging nettles which has been made home to a swam of wasps. Constant background pain with the occasional sharp stab with each false move of the arm. Irritating pain, irritating pain, irritating pain, STAB! Irritating pain, irritating pain, irritating pain, STAB!

Lucky, lucky me.

The result of said niggling pain is a reluctance to move said left arm and keep it as still as possible. In the short term this worked fine, but now it’s debateable what is more noticeable, the tight white bandage or the strawberry red hand which marks the collection point for bodily fluids. Despite appearances I’m still electing to go for ugly hand over hurty arm. Spending a day carrying out tasks with one arm brings no rewards but plenty of challenges. Prepping food, putting headphones on, bodily functions. Right now I am typing this, to the best of my ability, with one hand. In fact not even one hand, one index finger. And my gosh it’s so tedious, every upper case letter takes forever to implement! Going back to correct frequent typos takes forever (if you’re reading this and spotted many missed mistakes I’ve overlooked, sorry but not sorry – same for grammar). I’m currently pumping myself full of sugar to stay motivated enough to type one fingered. There could also be a number of drugs messing with my head, this I’m not too sure of because everything I write is just as equally likely to be natural, wacky, me. It reminds me of the days at school before I learnt to join up writing, when every letter was written out one. By. One. It also reminds me of when Mumma Bennett used to insist on typing each letter on the keyboard.

“Let me help you mum.”
“No, it’s ok.”
“But it’s so painful to watch!”

Today’s events have also reinforced my firmly held belief that very British person chooses to ignore the blinding obvious out of fear of causing offence. Why do we do it? Say no evil, there is no evil (that’s how it works, right?) Returning back to the office from my not so merry outing with a large white bandage it did cross my mind that the fashion statement might come into water cooler dialogue. I had it all prepped, “oh goodness Alice, are you ok?” someone would say. “It’s fine,” I’d wave off “just medication, this is temporary.” Total times I had to pull out this comment? 0. Now, I will accept that I wasn’t particularly desperate to tell my co-workers the full details, but I was surprised by the lack of comment. People looked at the bandage enough, so much that I was actually quite relieved that the medical wrapping wasn’t positioned on my head or chest. They knew it was there, some of them may have even notified my attempts to shift through paperwork one-handed (FYI not easy) but nope, we will let the strangely limp human carry on. It’s character building. I elected not to tell clients on email/phone of this development. When I am chasing for something or vice versa the last thing either of us care about is the state of my left arm. Do you still have four limbs? Yes. Am I getting my quote today? Yes. Ok, well I’d love to chat but I really would rather not. Bye. Simples.

The minor pain will be gone by tomorrow, but going through this makes me value those who have to put up with pain constantly. Fair play to those sorts because, as you can tell, I’ve barely made it through twelve hours without going cuckoo. I feel like Peter Griffin that one time he was in a wheelchair.

(Apologises for image quality, YouTube scroungers can’t be choosers)

I’d like to write more on this but my right arm is beginning to ache from the typing, my left arm has been stung my wasps again and my brain is trying to work out how the stuff to prepare dinner and tomorrow’s lunch with minimal limb usage. It’s going to be interesting and quite likely coffee stained. Who knows, maybe we’ll get a hot beverage burn in there for good measure.