RIOT TOWN

Midnight 10 August 2011

At 6pm today, I stood by my kitchen window and watched the deep breath in as London quietly prepared itself for another possible night of riots. By then I was tired of the anticipation and for a moment, I thought, 'Let them come.'

If they're coming this way, just be done with it. I don't want to keep checking twitter and facebook every 30 seconds, watching out for the ducked heads and covered faces of dangerous young kids passing by my bedroom window. The police sires and helicopters have been going all day. I'm tired of the same old reel sky news and the bbc are playing - and yet I can't switch them off. I can't stop listening and looking and trying to find out what's happening.

By 6pm, it'd been 24 hours with a knot in my stomach. Up the road, my local shopping centre was boarding up its windows and doors

The riots are scary because they are everywhere. My friend Venetia was in a cab last night and her driver told her that at that moment, there were 14 simultaneous riots happening across London. From the poor areas of Croyden and Hackney, to the prosperous Ealing and home of middle management, Clapham. Friends live above stores that were ransacked and gutted, and across the road from buildings that have been razed to the ground. People's homes have been burnt down. An old woman in Ealing woke up with looters in her bedroom, going through her belongings. A current viral sensation is a video of a looter helping up an innocent injured kid who has been knocked over in the rioting ruckus - getting him to his feet, then opening his rucksack and stealing his belongings. London is burning. Everywhere there are photos of kids in baggy sportswear and bandanas tied over their faces, hoods up, only their eyes showing - they're setting bins on fire and throwing bricks at police cars. South London gangs are calling truces with eachother in order to join forces in the riots and cause the maximum amount of damage possible.

I can't deny that the riots are scary. And that I have felt scared in their wake. But more than anything, more than I am scared or saddened; I am angry. I am so, so angry.

The riots broke out after a man was shot and killed by police in Tottenham (North London, shooting location was 3 minutes from my old apartment) and a peaceful march upon the Polica Station the next day descended into chaos. The tottenham riots, which blitzed the area all through saturday night, were mainly between the black youths of the area against the police force. While shocking and disturbing, there seemed a method to the madness. Kids vs Police over a death. Sunday brought more of the same, although to a slightly lesser degree and in different areas.

Monday though..... monday was when it exploded. Suddenly riots broke out all over London. Groups of kids started ransacking whole streets, breaking the windows of shops, stealing everything inside, then petrol bombing the building and watching them burn until they are hollow shells. Nothing related anymore to that guy in Tottenham, Mark Duggen, who pulled a gun on a cop and found himself shot twice - once fatally. By the time kids were clearing the bikes out of Halfords in Brixton and the trainers out of JD Sports in Clapham,it had nothing to do with a man in North London who died. It had everything to do with greed and some of the most flagrant lack of respect I have ever seen.

Two teenage girls were interviewed on BBC this morning, drunk on rose wine they'd looted from a local store, claiming the riots were 'fun' and 'hope they'd happen again tonight'.

When asked why the riots were happening, they said, 'It's the goverments fault..... I don't know.... The Conservatives. I forget who it is. I don't know.'

When asked why they were rioting and looting in their own area, knocking off their local people they said,

'It's the rich people. The people that got businesses, and that's why this is all happening, becuase of the rich people. So we're just showing the rich people we can do what we want.'

This is taking place near a string of gutted and ruined stores, including corner stores and off licences - little independently owned shops that have nothing to do with tories or so called rich people.

What is most apparent is the blinding stupidity of the rioters. One looter in Clapham answered a reporter's question of 'what are you doing?' with the mind bogglingly moronic response 'getting our taxes back, innit.' Another was arrested stealing from Currys, an electronics store. The exact same store that she worked at.

People were walking through the broken glass windows of Debenhams and scooping up armfuls of clothes. Clearing shelves in off licences of their bottles of rum and vodka. Most imporantly though, everyone got a new pair of trainers and a new phone. They are ripping our city apart for trainers and phones.

The media is desperately scrambling to use the 'disenfranchised youth' angle. Everyone wants to blame the poverty, the budget cuts, the poor, poor neglected youth of England. Glenda Jackson, the Hampstead/Kilburn MP, said it best: 'Don't give credence to the argument that these are deprived children, they all ahve Blackberries.'

Most people involved in teh riots are teens. A shocking 50% of arrests yesterday were people born after 1991. The youngest charged is 11 years old. These riots have been organsied primarily on BBM and twitter - smart phone apps. These children say they are fighting 'government, tories, rich people, i don't know' - But here in lies the core of my fury - How many starving third world revolutionaries are parading around with Blackberries, organising riots on BBM to steal trainers?

There is no sense. They are not fighting for a cause. They are rioting to riot. They have found an excuse to go out and wreck havoc, do whatever they want. Some snotty nose little shit in a hood and his tshirt pulled up over his nose and sunglasses on, just said on the news, 'I'm doing this because I can. Because tonight the police can't do anything to me.'

He was clutching a bottle of rum. He had fat fingers and a young voice. He couldn't have been more than 16.

The go-to line of 'retaliating against the goverment' makes my blood boil. By no means am I the biggest fan of the Conservative government, but what is there to rally so hard against? Our free health care? Our easily manipulated benefits system? I don't agree with many of the budget cuts that this government has made, but I also don't believe in the benefits system that has existed in England for so long. The Conservative government has made it much harder to 'sign on' - ie, receive the dole/jobseekers allowance. And so it should. Why, if you are physically able and mentally capable, should you not work? Why should people who do work have to pay tax in order to fund your arse sitting, tv watching, criminally lazy lifestyle?

As I said,by and large I don't agree with the cuts - I think they've made many many wrong decisions with regard to them. For instance, disability benefits are almost impossible to get nowadays, even when people are really, legitimately ill and actually cannot work. My friend Nathalie is going through a bit of a benefits battle after several rounds of chemo left her constantly ill. One of these bouts of sickness landed her in the hospital with a heart infection, where a viral infection went undetected, and left her paralysed from the waist down. Not long after she was declared a paraplaegic, her local council sent her a letter stating they were slashing her benefits as she could not prove she was 'unfit for work.' They also refused to contribute to a stairlift (her flat is on the 1st floor of a walk up) or pay for her to move. This meant she was unable to elave her house for months unless she was physically carried down the stairs - until some very kind people raised money for her and bought her a stairlift. She is managing to get back on benefits - which she should have as she is physically unable to work - but it has been a long and hard road.

And yet she has never once incited a riot, thrown a petrol bomb, looted a store. Her problems cannot be fixed by stolen trainers and phones and flatscreen tvs.

What is it they are rioting for?

I keep thinking this, over and over again:

184 MILLION Africans suffer from malnutrition. THAT is a tragedy.

15 MILLION African children have been orphaned by AIDS. THAT is a tragedy.

Every 4 seconds a child dies from aids/poverty. THAT IS A TRAGEDY.

Having to work, to hold down a job, in order to buy yourself new trainers and phones and flatscreen tvs IS NOT A TRAGEDY.

Get off the dole. Take some accountability for your life.

I am so angry I can barely organise thoughts in my head. More than I am scared and more than I am confused and more than I am sad - I am angry.

There have however, in teh wake of all this destruction, been moments of quite incredible hope. Last night The Ledbury, a 2 star Michelen restaurant in Notting Hill, was attacked by the mob. Rioters smashed the windows and bombarded in, taking jewellery and wallets from the diners. The kitchen staff retaliated and fought of the mob with rolling pins, pots and chefs knives. They then hurried them down to the cellar until things calmed down, giving them cognac and champagne.

Kingsland Road in Dalston was not hit at all last night, despite gangs splashing up on both sides of the long road that reaches from Tottenham on one end to Shoreditch on the other. THe turkish shop owners (of which there are many - given the high saturation of turkish owned shops on the stretch) stood out in front of their stores, arm to arm, all the way down the road, refusing to let anyone near their shops. They called their friends and those friends called their friends and any gangs who approached Kingsland Road dispersed quickly at the sight of The Turkish Grocery Army.

This afternoon you couldn't see Clapham Junction for the hoards of people with brooms, black bags and gloves. It looked like the whole of Clapham came out to help clean up the streets. Tonight there are hundreds of Sikh men in Southall, guarding their temple and the streets - creating a presence to safeguard their community.

And my personal favourite, my absolute best, is that there was some footage last night of a street in Ealing that had been absolutely pillaged. Well... almost absolutely. Standing between some barren electrical stores and cleared out clothes shops, there was a waterstones, England's biggest chain of bookstores, left completely untouched.

Today there was a sign in the window of that Waterstones.

WE ARE STAYING OPEN. IF THEY STEAL OUR BOOKS, THEY MIGHT LEARN SOMETHING.

As i type this there are riots in Manchester, Liverpool and Birmingham. It's like a ghost town outside my window, save for the constant wail of sirens. I don't know where they are going. London is eerily quiet right now. I think we're all still waiting for something else to happen, but if it does, I hope to be near a Turksih shop, or a Sikh temple, or in the cellar of a Michelin starred restaurant drinking champagne. Or in a Waterstones.

...and this is where we live now....

I’ve been quiet. To this land of the internet, as good as dead. It’s a combination of tiredness and a distinct lack of connectivity; mostly I have been siphoning any leftover filaments of energy I have crawling into bed with my boy – or lying with my legs across his lap watching made for TV murder mysteries, tracing his prominent eyebrows with the soft pads of my thumbs. I’d go so far as to say I’d spend all of my free time with him, doing whatever mundane task the day required of us, just sitting on a bus getting to wherever it is that we need to go. But in truth, buses make him edgy, and it’s an often arduous task simply travelling as a pair. His shoulders hunch up as if poised on the precipice of battle, his eyes dart toward the footfall of strangers every time the doors open. At first, I found this attitude odd, but with time and a shift in residence I’ve come to realise it’s not so much nature as nurture. It is, as much as anything, a South London thing. Defining personality by geography, as if gleaning personal insight by reading the A-Z.

South London is ugly. From the false hope of the south bank of the Thames, the beautifully lit Royal Albert Hall and the lights on the bridges, the city slopes down into a wasteland of fried chicken shops, clothing stores selling itchy, alien coloured polyester, signs boasting ‘EVERYTHING £5!!!’, mobile phone stores, their windows garishly lit with Chinese LED signs, ‘OPEN TIL LATE’ ‘PHONE UNBLOCKING DONE HERE’, pink plastic diamond encrusted iphone covers hanging in their windows. All goods on sale, everything displayed. Even the crackheads and whores (or as is common, crackwhores) find little reason to hide themselves south of the river. They press themselves up outside 24hour minicab offices, drinking Super Tennants, selling their wares, themselves, as if Peking ducks in restaurant windows on the streets of hungry Beijing.
There’s a peculiarity built into the South London demeanour; an out and out aggression, a sort of spit and snarl that acts as a precursor to every sentence, every action. You hear it all the time, it saturates the already damp air. The 188 bus runs from central Russell Square to southerly Greenwich. An accidental misstep, the result of the jerking bus plucking your centre of gravity like a reverberating chord, will in Bloomsbury be met with a staid lack of acknowledgement or a polite grimace. But by the time the bus starts its path down Tower Bridge Road into Bermondsey, the same action will be met with a small snap at best, an onslaught of abuse at worst. I ride the bus trying to fit my whole self into a space too small to physically inhabit, hearing the hard wet slapping sound, like heavy feet running on a pavement, of all those altercations taking place, . I sit at the back at the bus only when it’s empty, and when it’s full, as near to the doors as possible. If it is ever me that stands on someone’s foot, my elbow digging into someone’s back, I feel my North of the River, privileged upbringing spill out of me like sick. “Sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Tsss...” The low hiss and growl of Bermondsey. “Fucking mug.”

This South London is new to me. Sure, I lived in Battersea for a substantial time and yes, it is an area that exists on the southern bank of the river, but one can scarcely call it South London. I loved Battersea, the park and the river and the crumbling mansions blocks on Albert Bridge Road, the poor man’s Chelsea, the beat up red merc with the soft top held together with duct tape. I live in South London now. Actual South London, proper South London, Pie and Mash and Millwall South London. I live just near the heart of the blue, near a 24hour supermarket big as an aeroplane hanger, on a noisy street that most Saturdays is peppered with riot vans and football violence. I guess, as it goes, I call South London home now. But when you come to the teeth and bones of it, truthfully I don’t like it much. Most of the time, I don’t like it at all.

I remember having a conversation with Shelley once, a million years ago, where I boldly proclaimed that I wouldn’t want to fly First Class once if I could never fly it again. What would be the point? Every trip after that I would only think of how things were just that much nicer on the other side of the curtain. Champagne before takeoff, real china, proper cutlery. The ability to breathe without tasting your neighbour’s sour recycled air. Ignorance, I told myself, was bliss. It was a silly teenage thing to say and I don’t agree now with my 16 year old self, but I can’t help but find a small nugget of truth in my juvenile petulance. There’s always a slight sad taste, like metal, when things aren’t as good as they used to be.
Don’t misunderstand me. I’m happier now than I was then. Personally, I’m in a better place. But in a bid for self preservation, I still avoid going anywhere near to Baker Street as far as I can help it.

An unexpected continuation of The Saga of The Black Leather Mini Skirt

The trouble with fashion is that certain pieces don’t always translate. The smooth long vowels of one language become jarred and awkward in another setting, and soon enough all that was great about a certain thing gets lost in what comes from being a slightly different you, in a very different place. As someone who moves around a fair amount, I am very aware of this. The yards of brown string and wooden beads, while perfectly fitting on a Kenyan beach, will lose any appeal under a grey London sky. London shoes are not Berlin shoes. A Parisian outfit in Cape Town will suddenly look overdone. And I know this. I really do. Which is why The Skirt has taken to a shelf since my return to London. In Berlin, The Skirt was in its element. It was a perfect piece. It solved all of my skirt dilemmas. I was absolutely content in my skirt wearing. Oh, how I loved that skirt. However, when I got back to London, something about The Skirt wasn’t quite right. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something certainly was amiss. Some days I would put the skirt on, um and ah, and invariably, just before leaving the house, throw on an alternate leg covering instead. Needless to say, The Skirt hasn’t exactly been on centre stage since its Berlin heyday.

But last night, that all changed. I decided I was going to embrace the long lost love of said skirt. I wore it to work. Obviously, as it a SMALL skirt, made of LEATHER, one walks a fine line with it. Things that are not recommended as a pairing, unless Eastern Bloc Prostitute is the look one is trying to achieve: Stilettos, very low cut tops, extremely tight tops, any other form of leather clothing (not shoes, read: bustier, jacket, waistcoat, etc.) In light of this, I wore my skirt with a pair of light beige ankle boots, an oversized sailor striped t-shirt and my customary top knot. It’s a casual look. IT WAS CASUAL. Anyhow, happy enough that my skirt was back in the game, I picked up my record case, donned my fur coat and headed out the door. Now, in retrospect maybe the fur wasn’t the best idea, sartorially speaking. Maybe, when the casual sailor shirt was hidden under the hip length fur, the look was decidedly less..... dare I say casual again? But it was cold and it’s my warmest coat, so I wore it.

On my way to the bus stop, an SUV that was driving by slowed down and pulled up next to me. In the style of every bad film noir movie ever made, the driver’s window slid ominously down. In the car, two huge Russians leered at me. In Russian, they had a brief exchange. The driver leaned out of the window, his one arm reaching toward me. His lip curled. And then he asked the question that no girl ever, ever ever ever wants to be asked.
‘How Much?’
I literally stopped walking I was so shocked. Appalled even. Insulted. And a bit hurt. I could do nothing but gape. I didn’t even have a caustic remark, not even an acrid sound to defend myself. A few days ago, when I was having a particularly trying day, a drunk man on the tube made a snotty comment about my top knot, likening it to a pineapple on my head, and I actually hissed at him. What I would’ve given just then to find within myself the sharp, snake like sound that would be an all encompassing portrayal of my reaction to the question, the hiss that would not only say, ‘No, I am not a prostitute’ but would also convey the sentiments of ‘Fuck You Very Much.’ But no. There was no sound in me. Instead, I shut my mouth that had previously fallen agape, gave the driver a withering look and shook my head in bewilderment, mostly to myself. And on I continued to work, every so often looking down at The Skirt and berating its existence. ‘I thought we were in this together.’ I told it. ‘How can you betray me like that?’ And ‘It’s all your fault you know. If I had just left you at home and worn one of your more sensible wardrobe buddies that never would’ve happened.’ The Skirt said nothing. It didn’t even try and defend itself. So as far as it all goes, I don’t know if London is ready for The Skirt. Maybe it’s a Berlin thing after all.

Later that night, when I told Laura the story, in all the horror of being so easily mistaken for a prostitute, she linked her arm around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder. “On the bright side,” she said, “you look so hot that they wanted to pay to have sex with you.”

In which a hotel bar is the order of the day

I could spend hours sitting in the perpetual dusky twilight of a hotel bar. I love hotel bars, good hotel bars, fancy ones with monogrammed coasters and deep buttoned sofas and flocked wallpaper and ancient books and cocktail menus and wine lists thick and heavy; weighty tomes. I love the dark light that seems to live in them, the palpable air, the rows and rows of single malts, the steady hum of the day passing unbeknownst to the quiet souls within it. Yesterday, Tam and I, in celebration of her birthday, spent much of the afternoon nestled in the nook of one, glasses of red wine winking up at us in the moody light.

First, we went for lunch at Kitchen W8 – a superb pick of Tam’s that did not disappoint. I had a rib eye so meltingly tender and utterly delicious it made me re-evaluate my whole ‘last meal on earth’ dinner plan all over again, and go back to the original menu, of which steak was the star of the show. There was also the added benefit of after having felt a bit peaky and somewhat wan for the last few weeks, the steak made me feel as if I had mainlined iron. Lunch was long and leisurely and there were guest appearances by chanterelles and wild mushroom foam, foie gras mousse, Roast John Dory and dark chocolate truffles. After lunch, we took a stroll up High Street Kensington, popping into a shoe store so that Tam could purchase a pair of lovely tan brogues and I could stroke the soft leather of as many pairs of boots as possible without being frogmarched from the shop by world weary shop assistants, desperate for a commission and tired of the sighs and gasps and lip quivers of terminal window shoppers, such as myself. As we exited she shop, we partook in a bit of Chelsea beast spotting (yes, you, in the grey jumper. I’m talking about you.) and made our way to The Gore.

The Gore is a small hotel moments away from Hyde Park, hidden inconspicuously down a very Kensington looking street without much to-do. Through the austere stone pillars, typical of the area, a little bit of wood paneled heaven awaits. The Gore is opulent, but not ostentatious. There are huge gold gilt mirrors, oils of not entirely attractive women hang proudly on the wood paneled walls, elaborately carved staircases lead, white rabbit like, up tantalising plush red stairs. There are bronzed bits and pieces all over the place, soft carpets underfoot, wrought iron candelabras that wouldn’t look out of place in a medieval castle, and beams of coloured light that peek through the stained glass windows. Quite simply, old world charm personified. After seeing pictures of The Gore on the Lisa Borgnes Giramonti’s breathtaking blog, A Bloomsbury life, I knew that the bar and I simply had to get acquainted. Oh, and how we did. Tam and I ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir and reclined into the oddly deep leather armchairs and sat for hours and hours and talked and joked and laughed, and spent the afternoon in the comfortable confines of the chasm of time that exists solely in hotel bars.

A Moveable Feast

A long overdue photo post. Think of this as a quick tutorial in how every day can be turned into an event that uses food as its focal point.

To begin with, there is the casual sunday lunch, with a bit of ferocious car related debate and the customary Brawn/Ferrari/McLaren stand off.


Sometimes, Shelley makes us mussels. Pots and pots of steaming mussels in a deliciously hot, fragrant winey soupy base, begging for thick hunks of baguette to mop it up.

Which we enjoy with fine wine......

and dispose of our shells responsibly.

And then, sometimes we celebrate Christmas in November
And so begins the season for mince pies in cloches shone to a christmas bauble shine


with multiple servings of spiced pear bellinis, of course,


and scoring pig fat to create masses of crackling of crisped to perfection. Which goes nicely with



slow roast pork. Once again, courtesy of the dab hand of Shelley, culinary genius.


Sometimes (not often, but sometimes) we eschew linen and clean lines for fun tables, complete with board games, jenga and DIY decorate place mats.


And wipe the mess from smashing food into our faces with polka dot napkins.


Occasionally, I bake my body weight in Christmas Cookieswith these happy little cookie cutters

until I've made mountains of gingerbread trees


and spicy love hearts.


Reverting to type
we shrugged off the circus colours of Christmas in November and went for white tulips, linen and candles for Christmas Eve dinner.


We picked succulent roast marrow from the bone.

And made crockery and cutlery pirate flags.

In the aftermath of Christmas, when we were enraptured with playing with our presents, Shelley shared her white alba truffle with us
Which was heaven on a white plate.

And then, I retreated back up to the great white north, to The Hale
where Tamaryn's birthday dinner looked like this.


And this.

And this.

A not altogether comprehensive festive season activities check list:

Family Invasion.
Check.

Food prep in West London. 5 courses being prepared and 7 bottles of champagne consumed. First Bottle: Krug. Second bottle: Vintage Bollinger. Third Bottle: Ohlson de Fine MCC. Similar fashion to continue until all involved pass out drunk at 10pm; starchy fingers marking the sheets with potato dust.

Check.

Christmas Eve dinner party in formal wear with more champagne, roast marrow bone and tiny, perfect portions of confit duck shepherds pie. Unfortunate incident involving mulled wine reduction that looked like blood on the dessert plates. 100% my fault. I’ve been stripped of my pastry colours.

Check.

Vicious, brutal to the point of injury game of Yankee swap. Robin ended up with a maglite. Shelley got a Jamie Oliver cookbook. I was landed with a pink plastic shower cap in the shape of a pig. Gift FAIL.

Check.

Cheese scones on Christmas morning surrounded by cups of coffee, family and mountains on presents. End of the gift fail. Signature scent in pink box, rabbit hair oversized jerseys, zippo lighters, luxurious soft bed socks, Massimo Dutti sleep sets.
Check.

Christmas lunch at Kyle and Amy’s Christmas grotto of a living room. It was like a holly jolly santa ate too many Christmas cookies and exploded in there. In a nice way. Incredible gammon. Lots of wine. Feeling a bit sad about not being with my parents, brother and sister and upon (rather unexpectedly) seeing photos of them, bursting into floods of tears and dealing with an unattractive lip quiver for several hours. Followed by more wine.

Check.

Boxing day with puy lentils and pork chops, wine and old musicals. There was a lot of couching involved. See also: Sofa surfing, sloth, indolence. Inability to button up my Acne jeans.

Check.

Retreating to the countryside for the black hole between Christmas and New Years Eve. Marshmallow couches, listening to far too much Queen, drinking copious quantities of red wine and dancing to said music in the living room, rare roast rib of beef, The AGA, house shoes, teaching the parents about Jurassic 5.

Check.

All in all it was a festive season well spent. Tomorrow morning I must traipse back to London at a reasonable hour as I have a gig tomorrow night. And then, this year will be gone. See you all in 2010. xoxo

"When I am an old woman I shall wear purple with a red hat that doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me..."

When I grow old, I want to be one of those fabulous old woman London seems to breed. You don’t see them as they age, as they grow into their eccentricities. It’s almost as if they exist only in old age, waiting under a rock until they turn 75 and then emerge, fully formed, clad in Chanel and politically incorrect luxurious furs.

They always seem to be wearing massive sunglasses and walking with their knees slightly bent and their backs poker straight, somewhere between the awkward stumble of a baby giraffe and the gait of a runway model. They wear massive amounts of make up, have perfectly manicured nails and drawn on eyebrows that arch oh so high, as if to signify that behind those sunglasses they are in a state of permanent surprise.

I have seen a few lately that have stuck in my mind. On High Street Kensington at 11 o’clock in the morning I saw a tiny woman dressed in ankle length black fur, her white hair in a tight French roll, her face hidden two black Jackie O saucers. She walked slowly, with purpose, toward the red stand alone letter box next to the church and upon arriving at it, dipped a diamond encrusted hand into her quilted Chanel bag and retrieved a large white envelope. The address was written in elaborate curling calligraphy. I thought that the paper she used to write on probably cost more than my lunch that day. Dropping the letter into the box, she turned and made her way back along the road, into the maze of tree lined streets and opulent townhouses that define Kensington. As she walked away I noticed, on her feet, a pair of four inch black alligator skin boots.

On the bus, there was a statuesque woman carrying two Max Mara bags that would’ve crippled a lesser lady. She couldn't have been less that 80. She was rail thin but tall as an Amazonian, with long, rounded nails painted a pale gold and wore an outfit that consisted solely of shades of cream. As the journey went on and day quite quickly slipped away into the 4 o’clock nights of London winter, she removed her sunglasses and I noticed that she kept sneaking furtive glances at me from the corner of her perfectly made up eye. She was forming some decision about me in her mind, that much was clear, but I was unable to decipher if it was one I would find compliment in. As I stood to leave the bus, I made my way past her and saw her give me a small but distinct nod, as if she had come to the conclusion she found me acceptable. I self consciously touched my hair, fiddling with the loose top knot piled on top of my head. She caught my eye again and very quickly, closed her eyes and gave an imperceptible shake of her head, as if slapping my roving hand from my head. “Behave Eloise.” I dropped my hand. Apparently, if I want to grow up to shop at max mara and wear only cream, self conscious fidgeting must be left behind on the number 49 bus and not retrieved. Ever.

Going to Chiswick, I was sat next to an old woman who looked fit for a day of long walks in the Cotswolds. She was with who I can only deduce to be her granddaughter, who had clearly had enough of her company for one day. The granddaughter sat in stony silence, her arms folded across her chest, and fumed. The old woman, dressed in a knee length tweed skirt and a Barbour jacket, sat with her small shopping bag from a bespoke stationers and her handbag in her lap. She opened her purse and rifled though, pulling out a cream paper bag with old fashioned print on its crumpled front. She held the bag in one hand and with the other, wiggled her fingers over it, as if a top hat that a white rabbit was supposed to appear out of. She stretched out the opening of the bag and held it out to her granddaughter.
“Would you like a chocolate darling? I’ve got some rather good ones.”
Her voice was high and thin and clipped. It sounded like money and boarding schools for girls and long services in cold churches in the winter. The granddaughter, undeterred in her irritation, shook her head.
“Are you sure darling? They’re brandy truffles.”
The granddaughter shook her head again. Unruffled, the woman dipped a delicate hand into the bag and pulled out one dark truffle and popped it into her mouth. She gave a small shiver of satisfaction and closed the bag, dropping it back into her purse. Her granddaughter stood up and moved toward the door, where she stayed standing until she reached her station, a full two stops later.

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.