So... Where were we? Ah. Yes. The Hale.

I love and fear this area equally. I hate the way when people ask where I am living my reply generally elicits one of two responses:

1) Where?

2) What the fuck? That is the GHETTO!

Needless to say, I am fully aware of the ghetto status of the area in which I find my lovely abode. JFK told me only last week he is not allowed to ever return to the Hale due to a (if I remember correctly, which I may not) minor incident involving a crow bar. Colour me shocked. Last night, as I was getting ready for work, I heard the distinct rapid fire wall of sound that can only come from one of two things: multiple cars backfiring multiple times, or a small but very real shoot out. I chose to believe the former, but did not leave my house for an hour just to be safe, thus making me slightly late for work.
Having said that, the people I live with prove to be lovelier by the day, and my female housemate, S, is an incredible cook. I worship slash hate this. I am utterly perplexed by being the vastly inferior cook in my living area. (This obviously excludes the family I have lived with, as we all know that we, as a family, know how to use a pan/wok/grill/pizza oven/braising dish etc. No offense intended to absolutely anybody.) But trust me, when you wake up hungover at one in the afternoon, and your housemate is cooking something that smells AMAZING and then dishes you up a king sized portion of astoundingly delicious Japanese curry with sticky rice, you too will gloss over possible gunfire.

Anyway, I thought this juxtaposition of adoration/fear called for a little round of LOVE/HATE:

Things I love about London:

Love:
Saturday night dinners with friends I have not seen for far, far too long.
Included picturesque French brasserie in Chelsea, tiny tables in little nooks and crannys, windows that steamed up and glass that dripped with condensation as it poured with November rain outside. Champagne in unbearably elegant flutes, steak and burgers, red wine in glasses big as calabashes. Regaling hilarious stories from Berlin, hearing fantastic stories of her oh so famous employers, laughing till blue in the face about all the things that have happened since we last saw each other.

Afternoon shopping with my cousin
Trawling the shops with SS with the sole mission of finding her the perfect party dress for the damn near upon us end of year party season. Nipping into coffee shops that smell of cinnamon and spice and emerging onto the street with steaming vanilla lattes (hers) and soya milk hot chocolates (mine.) Finding the most perfect Ben De Lisi floor length number for her. Eating sushi on a park bench in Kensington, watching the flower sellers sell their pink hued cabbage roses.

Hate:
The suspect grease stains on the glass partitions on the tube and windows on the bus.
Note to EVERYONE who takes public transport. Please please please DO NOT put your filthy, grease covered, product slicked head on any glass surface. It’s revolting. I am getting a crick in the neck from trying to move my head as far as physically possible from the offending surface whilst remaining in my seat. (This is London. Bar a very old person or pregnant woman, you simply don’t give one of those bad boys up.)

Speeding Buses that hurtle around corners in the rain
Walking home this evening from my fantastic dinner, I berated myself for absentmindedly leaving my umbrella at home for the second day in a row. It was purely accidental both times. I changed bags and failed to see the little thing fall on the floor. Big Mistake. As I neared my street, the rain that was already in steady, constant pouring mode, gave way for the briefest of moments, as if taking a deep breath in, before gushing down in such force, with such ferocity, I was momentarily blinded. I quickened my step and was happy to feel, a mere few more moments later, than the rain had eased, and was back to its steady only halfway bad downpour. As I resumed a normal pace, an out of service bus came hurtling around the corner (the driver clearly a speed freak, both chemical and physical) at an alarming pace. As the aberrant bus passed me at his criminal speed, the rain that had collected in the road, found its way under the wheels, which in turn found its way, rather majestically, think – into a thick curtain, no, wall, of spray, that seemed to reach 10 ft high into the sky, linger for a beautiful moment, and then hit me, the full length of me, at a force so high it could have been measured on the Richter scale. Two thoughts sped through my mind. One was of the Guinness ads with the surfing and the horses that appear out of the waves. The other was, OH DEAR GOD. MY PUCCI SHOES!

Cold, soaked and as shallow as ever.