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.

The Problem with Bickenhall

Bickenhall was a palace. It was the big daddy of apartments, a Londoners hard wood floored wet dream. It was the first apartment I lived in, in London and the single longest stretch I have ever stayed in one house. The ceilings were high. The rooms were many. (bed: five. bath: five. sitting: two.) A red bricked mansion block minutes from baker st tube station with blue doors and carpeted halls and brass buttons that were buffed to a reflective shine daily and 24 hour porters and walls that could talk. Bickenhall was perfect. It was property heaven. It was also home. It was my happy place. The open plan kitchen with its 16 seater table and all the wine we drank and the copious quantities of Rand Bar Special are some of my best memories. I loved Bickenhall.

The problem with Bickenhall is that It has ruined real estate for me. Never again has a ceiling been quite high enough, a room airy enough, a kitchen well enough equipped. Bickenhall is my one true love. And as such, no where else has ever really managed to match up. Sure, there have been flirtations. I’ve dabbled in other houses, other places. I’ve casually encountered a few, embarked on serious relationships with others. But I’ve never loved anywhere like I loved Bickenhall. There was Bond Street and it’s dim sum smell, the late night restaurant refuse collection and never being bale to sleep through the night. There was Chiswick and its trek to transport and the delicious nearness of the river. There was Paris #1, my tiny apartment in the 13^th with the death trap spiral staircase. Battersea, the apartment with my fantastic neighbours and the park and bouef bourgingon every week; coupled with the Italians, a difficult bunch of people with whom I had a difficult relationship and thus, I became increasingly difficult myself as time progressed; as if it were all directly proportional and as the year went on we all just became more and more unbearable. Paris #2, the converted artist’s studio in the 10^th with the mint green smeg fridge and blue floors and ball and claw bath and antique radiators and jungle courtyard, the most picture perfect place I have ever called my home. York mans, the fire place and hallway long enough to do cartwheels in. Berlin, huge, firewood smell, 16 chairs, uncomfortable bed, several chaise lounges.

I hate house hunting. Silly really, as I seem to spend an incredible amount of time dedicated to the pursuit of it. I have a lot of awful house hunting stories that involve dogs, Nigerian scam artists, Eton boys with framed Wu Tang posters and other atrocities. This time, however, I seem to have skipped past the crazies and flea infested cess pits and have landed myself a new spot in a lovely warehouse in North London. And when is say North London, I mean, NORTH. It’s practically the great white north up here. If you’re a Hotspurs fan then come stay with me, because I am now a resident of The Hale. My new abode is a warehouse that makes its living by being a working photographic studio in the day. This morning, on the way to wash my face and brush my teeth, I crossed paths with a wafer thin girl who was half way through the make up process. She was a sad clown. But only on the left side of her face. The space is large and lovely and the floors are black and it’s double volume and the two people I live with seem very nice (and not crazy or ridiculous about labelling food and marking levels on milk bottles with a marker pen) and I think I just might like it here in The Hale...

However. This place is GHETTO. I couldn’t be more ghetto if I moved to Braamfontein. The Studio is on an industrial estate. Our warehouse is guarded by a metal gate I need two hands and my full body weight to open, kept shut with a padlock so big if used in a fight it would qualify as assault with a deadly weapon. The Hale is hardcore. The local store is a Lidl. It’s a bit of Berlin nostalgia. Only pricier. There are 24hr cab joints, Brazilian grocery stores and men in white vans everywhere. I am bringing back the canvas bag as my Paddington is not making a post midnight appearance in this area. From now on, I’ll carry my keys and phone in my pocket. No drunken 4am teetering on sky high stilettos, fumbling to find locks to fit the keys in my hand. Please. 'Wits about one' springs to mind.

It seems that as the years go on, I find myself moving further and further from the centre of London. I’m now here, at The Studio, in The Hale. Zone 3 people. Zone 3. Somewhere, 2004 Eloise is dying a slow, screaming death. At this rate I'll be moving to a little secluded spot in The Cotswolds sometime in 2014.

So here I am. In the hale. And I like it. I mean, it’s no Bickenhall... But then again, nothing is.

A brief summation of the return home and the other transportation means that followed

As expected, the journey was somewhat okay and the carrying of things was miserable. I returned to London to find it pissing down with rain. Caught an easybus back to the city (as I think we can all agree that Stansted is by no means London proper) and was sat behind a newly reunited couple who were so ecstatic to see each other that their 90 minutes make out session gave way to frequent groans best not aired in public and bouts of fervent dry humping. It was decidedly awful and I had to get the hell away from them and change my seat 30 minutes into the journey, which proved tricky when being driven down the motorway at breakneck speed in a vehicle with an alarmingly high centre of gravity and a cackling, mad Polish driver at the wheel. Anyway, arrived back in town, dropped my bags off, put on a pair of decent shoes and went to work. Electricity Showrooms has a light up dance floor that I love more than one really should love a dance floor and in all honesty it's a fun, easy set..... despite being a sometimes lengthy 6 hours long. Saturday was a similar scene. Only this time, on the way to work, somewhere near Elephant and Castle the bus driver took a wrong turn. Yes. A bus. Took a wrong turn. The bus driver, quick to realise his mistake, rectified the situation by doing a hair raising three point turn on a none too wide side street and emerged (miraculously) unscathed on the correct route.

Miss Trouble and I played at Catch on Saturday night (which, we realised, is our longest standing residency - the best part of FIVE YEARS) where it was full to the brim of Shoreditch tourists, hipsters and hipster tourists. Catch is a bit of an endearing disaster that somehow keeps itself alive and packed to the gills every night despite mediocre alcohol, awful DJ equipment that frequently fucks out mid set and a very bizarre dance floor/bar set up. Every time I play there I veer wildly between love and loathe, and at least once a set I decide I am going to pack it in; that the stupid equipment that scratches my cds, the needles that lose grip and skate across my vinyl if people jump really hard next to the booth (Beastie boys is dangerous territory here), the almost criminally low pay and the ever dwindling alcohol allowance can go fuck themselves. But then, somehow, I never do. I don't know if it's the weird people who come and shake your hand at the end of the set, or the kids who get so excited when they hear certain song they leap onto the guard rails and dance, one foot on a table, one foot one a rail, several feet up in the air, or the fact that after 5 years and a lot of moving around, it's pretty much the closest to a living room I have. So Catch happened. As it always does.

I then waited for the night bus. For an hour. In the rain.

When it arrived, someone had vomited on the floor.

Oh London.

Bye Bye Berlin

Thanks for the drinks. For the broken boots, the skirt, the crumple effect outside Zozoville after too much jagermeister. Thanks for the smell of firewood in the morning and the way the air bites my fingers and cheeks and nose, the long wide roads, the masses of greenery I didn’t expect you to have. Thanks for the cupcakes, the spaetzle, the brunches, the late night burgers, the art, the races, the beer, Habarmayer, soup bundles, massive scarves, the beautiful people, the tram, the apartment big enough to do cartwheels in. And the bookshops. Did I mention the bookshops? And for the dogs I don’t even like, the tiny children peddling furiously on the tiny bicycles, the rigorous recycling routine, the clinking, The Big Pink, the visitors, the heavenly food halls, the fall of the wall. Not to forget the toasters and old army boots and soft toys hanging from the windows of the squats and all the green hair in Friedrichshain. The punks and vegan shoe criminals, the beasts, DDR era style, woven polo shirts, the love graffiti. 2am beer runs, Turkish shops, tiny glasses of hot black tea while waiting for falafel, the free wine bar, the Bronx accent, the big boots on the u-bahn, the wet mist. And for the smell of the air as you near Winter.

Thanks Berlin. You’ve been kind to me. I’ll come see you again soon.

Berlin's illustrious October showing

You can have a little look see at October in Berlin over here.

Pink Noise

I am in love. It might be infatuation and honestly I know I won’t be able to differentiate one from the other for a good few weeks yet, but right now it feels like love. Oh calm yourselves. (That means you Corlia.) I have not been swept up in a whirlwind romance with a starving German artist by the name of Anders that will result in my abandonment of imminent travel plans and elopement to Dusseldorf. No, I’m in love with ‘A Brief History of Love’ by The Big Pink. It’s a near perfect wall of sound, an aural onslaught that keeps me pushing play, repeat, listen to end, rewind, play, repeat, ad infinitum. Since I saw them at Lido a few weeks ago, I’ve been unable to do much else but listen to their astonishing debut album. Or, more accurately, I’ve been unable to do much WITHOUT listening to their astonishing debut album. I listen to it when I’m on the train. I listen to it when I’m drying my hair, applying Chanel liquid eyeliner, safety pinning broken boots closed. It’s walking, eating, writing, drinking music. I can’t guarantee you’ll like it... But if you do like it, chances are you’ll love it.

Velvet is quite possibly the best song of the year (a lofty title I have not bestowed upon a song since the pop masterpiece of Muse’s 2006 Supermassive Black Hole - the band they are currently supporting on a massive arena tour) Other worthy mentions are Countdown from Ten and Too Young to Love. Hold me back. It's a bit dance floor. A bit maudlin. A bit heartbreaking. And a lot loud. This is what music should be.

Buy the record. Beg. Steal. Borrow. Do it.

Oh, and for those of you so inclined (as I am,) lead singer Robbie Furze is a stone cold beast.

Dylan Moran + Germany = a good time

This part is the same as it's ever been...

I am dreading my departure from Berlin. Nothing emotional here, I swear, I am simply dreading the actual act of having to move my things into a two canvas receptacles and carry them, bag lady style, onto several modes of transport. My current estimation, barring any unforeseen S-Bahn nightmares, stands at 5: U-Bahn, S-Bahn, Plane, Bus and then Taxi. The last two should read Easyjet shuttle bus and then big red TFL Bus but I know that by the time I arrive at Victoria I will be flirting with losing my will to live and will in all probability cave and get a taxi.

I am sad to be leaving but in all honesty I make it my business to leave places. I never want to go, but I always do. I try not to dwell on it too much, I just up and leave. It’s quite possibly both the best and worst thing about me. So even if I am not all that keen on departing my current location, I always enjoy where I am going next. And so I continue doing it, this ridiculous cycle that appears to have no end in sight. Anymore, it’s the bit in-between I don’t love. It’s not the flying, which I am fine with. It’s not even the airports, the waiting, the queues, the ridiculously overpriced and always horrific coffee. No. It’s the carrying stuff. I hate carrying stuff. It’s awkward and heavy and it makes my shoulders hurt and then my jacket twists around and gets caught in my bag strap and I start to overheat and berate myself for not working out, for not being more physically capable of the stupid act, and then my hands will hurts and there is always a point, somewhere along the line, where I just want to drop my bags, drop myself onto them, put my head in my hands and have a small but distinct weep. Nothing too dramatic. No ugly cry face and heaving sobs, my hat falling forwards off my head and my knees giving out under me and the ensuing human crumple effect. No, something dignified. A single glistening tear, a shuddering breath. You know. That sort of thing.

Anyway, like most horrendous tasks, it’s always best to keep an idea of your end goal in mind. A bit of motivation, the carrot on a string, if you will. So, with my return to London and the hell it will take to get there, my carrot on a string (read: cupcake) list goes something like this:
(please note I am excluding people as if I start naming names, or not naming them, as the case might be, I am asking for trouble.)

Good Glassware
My apartment in Berlin, while huge and fantastic, is where ugly shit has come to die. It’s oddly laid out, strangely furnished (did I fail to mention previously this apartment has no dining table but an inexplicable 16 chairs? SIXTEEN!) and the cutlery, crockery and general kitchen items leave much to be desired. I am a bit of a glass snob and like my wine glasses big as bell jars and so thin that the tap of a fingernail at the wrong angle results in rogue cracks and broken stems. In Berlin I have been drinking my wine out of small tumblers that look akin to tea light holders. Which is fine when you’re in Italy and there are old men drinking grappa and playing cards all around you and the wine comes in unmarked bottles and is sloshed more than poured. But I’m not in Italy. I’m in Berlin. And I have missed good wine glasses.

Martinis
I have not had a Martini since I left London. I love Martinis. Super dry, extra dirty, with at least two olives. Berlin is a lot of things; it's punks and dogs and anarchists and hardcore fetish techno clubs. It’s also a desolate tract as far as the shaken mixed drink is concerned. Magpie and I went to a so called cocktail bar with the express intent of finding martinis, but left after 17 or so tense seconds as it was so awfully fromagey it made us have a dual mini sick. I also usually keep martini fixings at home; however one cannot drink a martini from a small tea light tumbler.

Albert Bridge
Albert Bridge is London’s most beautiful bridge. Tower Bridge can keep it’s bascules, it’s Disney castle towers. Richmond can keep it’s smooth stone arches and storybook background. For me, it is all about the pale pink and green span of Albert bridge stretching across the Thames, connecting Battersea to Chelsea. I love the view from the bridge, the little octagonal toll booths on either end, the signs that say ‘All troops must break step when marching over this bridge.’ I love the way, at night, it glows; 4000 little round light bulbs shining as if their tiny tungsten half lives depend on it.

The Sunday Papers
Lots of coffee, spreading all the sections of all the papers out, flitting between them all before dedicating myself to any one, admiring the clothes in the style sections, hating the models, hating the writers, hating the news, HATING the columnists, pretending to be more highbrow than I actually am and finally chucking it in and devouring the smut paper I’ve secretly bought and deriving masses of guilty pleasure from it.

High Heels
My feet have been languishing in flats. Berlin is too cobbled and frankly, a bit casual, to traipse around in heels all day. I’ve worn heels here in the evenings, as under the cover of darkness the cool Berliners cannot see nor sneer at my inappropriate foot wear. I’ve missed wearing high heels in the daylight. How I love a skyscraper shoe and full light in which to appreciate the full glory of it.

Meals in Chiswick that defy classification
The ones that start as brunch and turn into afternoon tea and then cocktail hour and then dinner and next thing you know, I’m sleeping in Shelley and Paul’s spare room because the trains have stopped running and there was wine involved.

So.Back to London. London again. I can’t even count anymore how many times I have left that place. Or more fittingly, I suppose, how many times I have gone back.

Tales from a perfectly typical/typically perfect weekend

Everybody has a friend like Magpie. Everyone has THAT friend, the one with the soft leather gloves, the real Coach bag, the wardrobe bursting with knitwear of which every piece is cashmere. The one with the perfectly suited boyfriend; the best dressed couple you know, the JFK and Jackie of your phone book. (albeit, hopefully without the tragic and blood stained pink Chanel end.) While it would be easy to hate this friend we all have, the fact is, we don’t. I know I don’t. I want to. She’s too clever and well put together to not want to hate, but alas, the fact is, she is brilliant. Ere go, we are friends. Berlin and I were lucky enough to play host to her this weekend. I had been very much looking forward to her trip because she understands, mirrors and sometimes surpasses my obsessions with vintage clothes stores and food.

On Friday night we went for dinner at Henne. Henne is a chicken restaurant in Kreuzberg that serves, you guessed it, chicken. Chicken, cabbage salad, potato salad and bread. That is it. For the record, along with beer and remarkable looking men, I am adding chicken to the list of things that Germans KNOW. The meal, served in half chicken portions, is milk fried. Imagine if you will, southern fried chicken, but add the delicious flavour of a roast, some german zeal and you are probably still not able to imagine even 20% of the deliciousness it possesses. We (over)ate our chicken with side orders of kraut and kartoffel salat (best potato salad ever. hands down.) and drank delicious creamy beer from white, girly sized ceramic steins. The restaurant itself looks like the inside of a log cabin, complete with red gingham table clothes, antlers and deer heads mounted on the walls and hundreds of beer bottles lined up on the picture rails.

Saturday was food markets, lunch made almost entirely of cheese, looking at beautiful shiny things in beautiful shiny shops, happening across an American Apparel rummage sale (where all the broken, returned, stained items from AA shops across Europe go and are sold for a few Euros) and joy of joys, a I found a new pair of leggings and a deliciously soft long sleeved (super, super long sleeved – hence its initial return) white vest. We bought apfel strudel, saw some buildings, sat down to eat our strudel near said buildings, coined a phrase (strudel perch: any public spot where one sits to eat something.) At home we had a dinner made almost entirely of cheese (it was a cheese day really) and incredible spelt bread we’d bought at Winterfeld Markt. Then there were bars, tequila, sand on the floor tiki huts and the long and lengthy discussions of Magpie’s upcoming dissertation proposal for her Masters Degree at the loveliest and fanciest university in England, quite possibly the world. (I told you she was clever!)

I won’t lie to you and say that anything happened on Sunday morning. Sunday morning was spent sleeping off the aforementioned tequila. I was woken early in the afternoon by a phone call from my big brother and his awesome wife. (more often referred to simply as 'my sister' but I can't talk about my married brother and sister without veering off into undeserved redneck territory.) If there is anything better than the hilarity of a drunken couple calling you from the eleventh wine farm they’ve hit that day, I haven’t heard it. It was brilliant. I also love that that they get drunk and call me. It’s like I’m their married drunk dial. It fills me with a tremendous sense of self importance. Anymore, after the phone call, we proceeded to get on with the most typical of Sundays: a lazy brunch, meandering around the neighborhood and wandering around the Boxhanger Platz Fleamarket. (Spotted: Art beast selling his wares. Be still my beating heart.)

Then it was time for Magpie to leave. Sunday night transport mayhem ensued and the painless 25 minutes journey to the airport that should have been morphed into a treacherous, heinous monster of a trip that entailed six trains (SIX!!!!), biting nails, feeling a bit sick, making several flimsy contingency plans, obsessive clock watching, sprinting through the airport, begging the staff to let her check in past the allotted check in time, rushing through security, and by all accounts, making the plane.

So. That’s it for the visitors. Berlin and I are almost about to part ways. I leave on Friday. Boo and hiss.

Confessions of a so-called "music fan"

The fall of the Berlin Wall is nearing its 20^th anniversary. The city is awash with celebrations. Having said that, most of the celebrations seem to be more for the international press than the city's inhabitants. As far as I can tell most Berliners seem more concerned with drinking on the U-Bahn than partaking in public displays of post wall affection. This afternoon, I read online that one such celebration was a free concert at Branderburger Tor. Apparently, the city of Berlin in conjunction with MTV (Oh the sweet, glorious irony!) had arranged for U2 to play a short open air set before their appearance at the MTV Europe music awards. The MTV awards are this evening. While I am by no means all that keen on U2, my interest was piqued. A free show? This evening? At the lit up Brandenburg Gate by one of the biggest bands in the world 20 years after the most closely guarded border in the world was opened?! What a spectacle that would be. Apparently the band had released 10 000 tickets on their website a few days ago and were snatched up in 3 hours. Being ticketless, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get right into the thick of things, but I thought I might pop by anyway in hopes that I might be able to spy something worthwhile on a giant TV screen from a distance. For some reason I think that everywhere is Wimbledon polite and will screen events for those too cheap/lazy to get tickets. In any case, I thought that even from a few blocks away I would be able to hear something.

So off I went. No one seemed to know exactly what time it was all starting. I waited. I waited. I stood around and waited some more. I could see the Brandenburg Gate but not the stage. (Second taste of delicious irony: To celebrate the fall of the Berlin wall, U2 play free gig at Brandenburger Tor. Free gig is blocked off by 12ft high metal fencing covered in white tarp.) I was however most certainly close enough that when music was made, I would hear it. It got later and colder and still, there was no sign of them. Was this worth it? For four songs of a band I don’t even really like? It was 5 degrees when I left the house and the temperature was plummeting. After about an hour of being jostled about by throngs of manically rude Italian tourists, a misty rain began to fall. My commitment to the whole excursion, which I had been wrestling with in typical to and fro indecisive fashion, suddenly set itself. Without much ceremony, I turned and walked against the flow of people streaming onto Unter den Linden and left.

I walked along where the wall once stood and as I grew more and more resolute in my desicion to leave, it seems so did the rain in its resolve to stay. The fine mist grew thick and fat and soon droplets of water were splattering down and bouncing up from the sidewalk. As I reached Mohrenstrasse Station, where I was to catch the (quite fittingly) U2 line toward home, I heard the distant din of a screaming crowd and the thud of a stadium rock band. I don’t know if it was real or if I imagined it, it wasn’t close enough to tell, but still, I only paused a moment before descending down the stairs to the train.

There are bands that I will stand in the rain and the cold for, but U2 simply isn’t one of them.

In other news, on the way there, my ipod froze, crashed, then died. That’s another for the list of ‘shit I own that no longer works.'

Words of wisdom for the perpetually blue

I am a pit of malaise and miserablism. It’s best to not delve into this as it comes from unnecessary and ill advised delving initially. It will surely pass with time. As such, I absolutely cannot write tales of my day today. Or yesterday. Or the day before that. However, I can say that this state has inspired words of wisdom from my friend Tanya:

“Keep your eyes on the ground, I once found $100 bill on the floor of the pharmacy. You don't find that stuff when you're following cheery people's advice to "chin up!"”

And that made me laugh. So money or a brief departure from my signature scowl, I guess I win.

Falling apart at the seams

I feel utterly trashy. Not the good kind of trashy, a glitter on the pillow, smeared eye makeup and an inexplicable left brogue sans owner found in the kitchen kind of trashy. No, I am referring more to the plastic garden furniture in your living room kind of trashy.

Everything I own is falling apart.

My Laptop
The state of my laptop is thoroughly depressing. I remember when I got it and it seemed to weigh as little as a single stamped envelope. It was small and fast and the keys had just enough yield that typing created a pleasant tapping. My laptop seems to have aged with me. Let’s just say it’s not as svelte as it once was. I am embarrassed to show it in public. The keyboard is clogged. I have no explanation for this. I clean the keyboard regularly, and yet it seems as if a thin layer of filth has infected it and I need to type really hard for the letters to register on screen. Often, the C will refuse to work unless I hold my thumb down on it for several seconds. The F10 key is missing. Thankfully I have never had a use for the F10 key, so it doesn’t hinder me too much.

The insides of the poor thing are in even worse shape. At random intervals, my internet explorer will open umpteenth windows of whatever site I am on. Frantically, I work to shut them all down, but my computer is not as fast as it used to be and this takes time. Sometimes, if too many open up too quickly I simply have to wait for all 47 windows to open and the inevitable crash that ensues. At least once every 2-4 days, my screen flips upside down. There is an awful moment when the screen goes black and then my cursor will appear, the tiny arrow pointing down. Then the whole screen will return, only upside down. I have no idea why this happens. I’ve run virus checks, spyware checks, AVG, everything I can think of. Even my computer genius brother doesn’t know why it happens. When it does, I have to restore my system. This is not the most speedy of tasks. In fact, I believe that system restores are filed under ‘Ball Ache’ in the big book of life. To make matter worse, I have to restore my system UPSIDE DOWN and in reverse. When I drag my mouse right, the cursor goes left. It’s a bloody nightmare.

The speakers no longer work. They haven’t worked for about a year. However, you could still get sound through headphones. This morning, the headphone port spat out tiny bits of plastic and metal. In order to get sound before, you had to press the jack down, as there was, I can only assume, a bit of a dodgy connection. However, the laptop is apparently tired of that and now there is no sound to be had. At all. The prospect of not being able to watch Michael McIntyre clips on youtube panics me more than I can fully tell you.

My battery charger, after a long and drawn out ordeal, also died a painful death. Unable to acquire a new Dell charger, I resorted to the cheapest charger I could find. Please note that I searched for days to find said charger, and eventually found one at MediaArkt (8000square metres of electrical good hell) that cost a sickening 50 Euros. That was the CHEAPEST one! It is roughly the size and weight of your average clay brick and due to compatibility issues, I was incensed to discover, cannot charge my laptop, but instead acts only as a power source. Accidently knocking the flimsy cord and dislodging the charger has resulted in many unexpected shutdowns and much filthy sailor swearing.

My Clothes
My boots finally died. I have tried to fix them but alas, this time I don’t think I will be so lucky as to coax a few more days of fully zipped wear out of them. I also inspected the soles and found them alarmingly worn down and completely without grip. This would explain why the smooth tiles of my building’s entrance hall are such a treacherous seven steps for me. Today I closed them up by wrapping a thin belt around my calf. It didn’t look bad and if one was none the wiser, it could easily pass for pirate punk. But being in the know, the whole thing had the slightly musty smell of homelessness and free soup. Why not wear other shoes, you ask? The other flats I have here are all in similar states of disrepair. Holes abound. It was raining out. I thought it safer to wrap a belt around my lower leg.

All of my trousers have holes in them. My jeans are about to give. The darning on my black trousers is teetering on the brink of embroidery. The handles of my favourite oversized horse bag bought in Paris far too long ago are held on by safety pins. This is not ideal when carrying heavy loads. My Pringle socks have holes in the toes.

Everything is falling apart. At the seams. Other things on the precipice of ruin include my ridiculous mobile (what was I thinking, getting a Prada phone? The things I will do for an attractive carry case.) My headphones. My luggage. My Chloe Paddington. I won’t go into too much more detail as I don’t want this to seem as if I am complaining. I’m really not. I’m simply stating the facts as they are. I find the whole thing amusing really. It’s all a bit Poète Maudit, but no need for concern until I wake up in Nina Hamnett territory.

Have you ever met a man with a vagina tattooed onto his chest? Because I have.

First off, mom, dad, various aunts and uncles, you might want to skip this post. This might not make you all that happy. I am not kidding.

Okay, let me start from the beginning. James was in town in this weekend. Aside from watching the Big Pink at Lido, jacket shopping in Friedrichshain & Turkish Food, I was excited that James would be in town this last weekend for another reason: It was the last race of the season. James might not be as ridiculously obsessed as I am, but he knows his cars and is a good F1 buddy. He understands what I am talking about when I stare at the screen and mumble things like “the one stop could work out for him, but that means a long stint on the softs, which aren’t option and unless the track cool sufficiently he’s fucked. crazy brilliant tiny jap.” So on Sunday afternoon James and I go to the only place in Berlin I’ve managed to find that shows the race. It is an awful sports bar. There are Australian flags strung up. Backpackers are everywhere. No one speaks german. There is a hostel upstairs. It is the sort of place you would find in Wimbledon, the type of bar where a double shot of liquor inexplicably costs less than a single. It’s hellish. But it shows the race. So it serves my purpose. We watch the race and all is well.

The race finishes at about 4 and we have a few drinks inside of us. It’s getting dark and we decide to head out of that hell hole and go get a drink somewhere a little less depressing. We head back into Friedrishshain to a fantastic cosy little bookish bar and have a glass of wine. At about 6ish, I realise that the small bowl of chips that I ate at the sports bar is starting to wear a little thin and I am STARVING. We go have pizza (possibly the best pizza in Berlin??). We are seated at the same table as two dudes and it all goes a bit wrong. We eat their bread sticks. (We thought they were ours. They however, knew otherwise) We drank their beer. We didn’t realise we drank their beer until our beer arrived. When their pizzas arrived they made a snarky comment about how we might enjoy their pizza too. It was awkward as hell. After we eat, we go to meet James’ friend L. L works at a mammoth club in Berlin that is often said to be the best club in the world. It’s an old power station that now is hardcore techno heaven. They have a VERY STRICT no camera policy. If someone sees you with one, your ass will be on the street in a heartbeat. So, there are no pictures. Don’t ask for any. Also, this club shall remain nameless. If you know it, then you know it. If you don’t, then I’m not going to be the person to tell you. It’s better this way. I don’t want to get into trouble for disclosing the details of what might be the most literal interpretation of hedonism I've ever encountered. Anyway, L went to work at 6am on Sunday morning. She finsished her shift at 7pm on Sunday night and we went to have a drink with her at the club. This place opens on Friday night and closes at midnight on Sunday. When we went in at 8 o’clock on Sunday night, it was HEAVING. People had been there for 36 hours plus. Seriously. Time does not exist inside. There are no mirrors anywhere. There are no clocks. No windows. People are going off. Throngs of writhing bodies move as one organic mass. We walk through the club. There are mezzanines where people are making out, nodding off, talking shit, drinking and dry humping. There are dark rooms where you can nip into for a quick fuck. It’s not strictly a gay club, but I wouldn’t recommend it for anyone who is even slightly homophobic. For two reasons. Firstly, homophobia is a dickhead mentality and you shouldn’t be let out of the house. Two, you are almost guaranteed to see two guys fucking. Or at least getting head. Broken bottles are everywhere. Trails of piss and cum lead the way, Hansel and Gretel style to and from the bathroom. There are separate toilets for men and woman, but that is only a formality. People of both sexes walk into both. The bathroom is a party in itself. You wouldn’t believe that so many people could fit into such a small space. L’s boyfriend, R, having done a line of speed and an electronic music fan, dances with jazz hands. He is in general, a bit of a delight. He introduces us to a friend of his, a true Aryan boy, rail thin and beautiful, with white blond eyelashes and a lip ring, snowy blond hair that is shaved on the one side and falls over his face on the other. He is impeccably dressed, in black harem pants that sit low on his skinny hips, a just tight enough white t-shirt with a monochromatic image on the front (possibly naked 40s film star, can’t remember exactly) and the sleeves cut off, white lace up leather ankle boots. Naturally, I assume this beautiful young thing to be a rampant homosexual. He is too pretty, too well dressed, too, well, GAY, to be straight. That is the assumption I go with for a while, until L beckons me close to him, lifts his shirt with one hand and I see, on his breast bone, the most unbelievable intricate tattoo..... of a vagina. R laughs when he sees my shocked face. And then he mimics going down on it. I look again. There is something biblical about it. Literally. The clit is the Virgin Mary’s head. I will say that again. The clit. Is the Virgin Mary’s Head. My thought process went something like this:
WhyWhaHowWHoWha???WHAT????
Tattoo artists wield great power. I think that there should be some sort of psych test that a tattoo artist has to undergo before picking up an ink gun. I also think that ther should be some sort of psych test that people undergo before getting a tattoo. (Quick side note, there is a tattoo parlour in F-hain, that might qualify as the greatest tattoo parlour in the world. On the front door there is a sign. It has two red circles on it. In one circle is a Chinese symbol. In the other is a star. Both have big red lines drawn through them. Basically, if you want ‘spirit’ in Chinese tattooed on your shoulder or stars on your wrist, you can fuck off. It is BRILLIANT.) Anyway. It generally doesn’t take all that much to get somebody to mark you PERMANENTLY. Just a bit of cash. That’s all it takes. Seriously. If you have some money, then it’s not that much of a stretch to get someone to forever change the pigment of your skin so that for the rest of your days, there will be a giant, shockingly life like, gaping vagina on your chest.

So it stands to reason that the beautiful Aryan was in fact straight. After all, what gay man would EVER tattoo a vagina on their chest? A vagina with the Virgin Mary as a clit, no less. That might be gay hell. If he was gay, that would be a sure fire way to NEVER get laid. What gay men wants to be faced with a dogmatic vagina? He would have to spend the rest of his days having sex with his shirt on. So the beautiful Aryan is straight. Beautiful, blond, with the weirdest taste in tattoos ever. He also has a weird triangle thing around his belly button. I didn’t look that closely. There were other things that were taking up my attention. Clearly.
Unfortunately, I am not 100% certain what the etiquette is when faced with a such a sight. I reigned in the millions questions that were racing through my mind. Not once did I say, “WHAT THE FUCK?” I did however ask to see it again. Just once. And then I kind of nodded in an unimpressed way with sort of New Jersey Mafia lip curl and smirk, as if to say, “Yeah, cool, whatever. It aint a thang.” (Imagine the accent please.) And then we were done with it. But in my head, we were so not done with it. Every few minutes the image of it flashed in my head. And I chewed on the straw from my Whiskey and soda so that my lips did not ask the question that frankly, needed to be asked. "Why?"
Anyway, we leave the club after a few hours. It might be the best club in the world. I've heard it said. And even though I am not what you'd call a techno fan, it might be true. It's everything you want in a club.

Before we go home, James and I stop off at a Tiki bar. There is real beach sand on the floor. I love Berlin.