mind the crap; another 100 lessons learned in london.

around about this time two years ago i moved to london. around about this time one year ago, i wrote a list of a 100 lessons i had learned in that year. and around about now, you're about to read another one.

1. When you get invited to an event that promises “complimentary cocktails” you can be sure the glasses are going to be small. Very small. Its more like complimentary shots of mojito really.

2. When you go to one of those work functions where you have to wear a name tag, make sure you take it off before you get on the tube. Londoners don’t like to stare but in that case you give them no option.

3. Don’t fall for that four-letter word SALE. Just because something is 70% off it doesn’t mean you can now afford it. You may be more willing, but willing is not the same thing as able.

4. Also RENT. “rent” does not mean “rent.” “rent” means rent + bills + council tax + inventory + clean + miscellaneous other bullshit charges usually over £100.

5. (There’s a very good reason why Foxtons can offer you “free” cappuccinos and sparkling water while you wait.)

6. “Is the bed hard?” “I like a hard bed.” “Can I try it?” Three things NOT to say to a young chap from Foxtons.

7. When Foxtons asks you what your budget is, tell them £100 less than it actually is. They only end up showing you the ones that exactly match or exceed that budget. And before you know it, 400 is the new 300.

8. Don’t think of rent in weekly terms. 400 is not 100 more than 300, its 400 more.

9. Be weary of real estate lingo. It is governed by its own rules. Cosy means crap, quaint means crap, comfortable means crap. Just go from the premise that anything under £400 a week is more often than not, crap.

10. Which is to say, don’t just mind the gap, mind the crap.

11. When you’re putting in an offer on the beautiful top floor flat with a view, make sure you know people who’ll carry your shit up there.

12. There’s a reason why there are always (beautiful) top floor flats on the market.

13. Don’t sleep with your flatmates – easier said than done.

14. Actually, avoid having flatmates altogether and then you can sleep with whoever you want. So much easier.

15. Life is so much better with no flatmates. Just make sure you never have any chocolate lying around.

16. Yes, London is in England, and yes the official language is English, but that does not mean that everybody speaks it. In fact there is probably an inverse ratio between the amount you need someone to speak it, and their inability to do so. That is, all the people you generally really need to understand you, like the maid, the dry cleaner, and the guy who comes to repair your washing machine—all those handy people—they don’t speak English.

17. Learn to draw.

18. Or, learn Portuguese.

19. Rush hour is rush hour, but rush hour in Oxford Circus is a friggin’ carnival. No feathers, no cocktails, just cocks. No, don’t you worry pumpkin, you sit, I’ll stand, in my heels, with my work bag, gym bag, shopping bag, and newspaper. It’s all good.

20. Actually, I take that back. rush hour in oxford circus is not rush hour its rush hours. A seemingly endless succession of them. so, it has no bearing if you get out of work an hour early or late…you’re still. Always. Screwed.

21. Oh and speaking of carnival – the Notting Hill one that is. Erm, two words of advice. PRE-GAME. You do not want to go there sober.

22. Also, try to grow some breasts in advance.

23. And one more thing—Don’t be caught on camera doing this.

24. Wow. I’m all for letting go, I’m all about having fun, and lord knows I’m all about dance. But that? Wow.

25. If someone insists on paying, don’t insist back. Let it be. The Beatles were from London you know…and I’m pretty sure this is what they meant by that. What else could “when I find myself in times of trouble” refer to?

26. When you sign up to do a funky art review, make sure its not in like Zone 27. I mean I love art and all, but there’s only so far I’ll go.

27. Also, when you sign up to do an art review, make sure you go. The word view in review implies that you’ve seen it.

28. When it comes to distances, don’t question how willing you are to go somewhere…question how willing you’ll be to trek back. As in, when someone invites you to a cool party in bethnal green and you live in Chelsea, say no.

28. Sunny morning = rainy day; grey morning = sunny day; weather forecasting is not that difficult at all.

29. Actually there are a number of other surefire indicators it will rain:

a) You’re wearing suede shoes.

b) You’re wearing new shoes, suede or otherwise.

c) It’s been a long day already.

d) Its been a bad day already.

e) You’re in some strange part of the city

f) All of the above.

30. Blowdry, n. A waste of time, money and optimism.

31. Don’t get sick. Don’t get hurt. Don’t put yourself in any situation that requires you to see a doctor or come anywhere near the NHS. What? There are no free appointments until next Thursday? Oh, well alright then, I’ll just put my cough away in my pocket and come back then!

32. Again, there’s a reason why NHS healthcare is free. Most people end up not using it.

33. The A&E wing of the hospital is really not as exciting as you’d imagine, or as ER would have you believe. No gushing blood, no swinging doors, no dashing George Clooney in a white coat whizzing through them. Nope. The A&E is just full of other people like you, who didn’t want to wait for the next available appointment at their regular GP, and didn’t want to walk to the nearest “walk-in” which is really not so near after all.

34. Don’t flirt with the young suited fellow in the waiting room. His mother is like, dying down the hall.

35. When someone offers you a pound for a cigarette, offer them a savvy piece of financial advice in return to put it in a piggy bank, and when they’ve done that seven times they can buy their own packet!

36. No, wait, just sell all your cigarettes for a pound each and then you can buy 3 packs! Hello ROI!

37. Don’t go to Shirtsteam dry cleaners in South Kensington. For their rates (who knew STEAM could be so expensive!) you can just buy a new dress.

38. But don’t do that either. Just find an affordable dry cleaner and stop buying clothes that are dry clean only!

39. Just when you begin thinking the summer is ending…it already has.

40. In fact it often never even happened. It was like an hit TV-show-pilot that got you all excited and waxing…and then went down the drain.

41. Telling people on the tube to “move all the way down into the carriages” has no effect. If they didn’t obey when the conductor said it, they sure as hell won’t listen to you. Huffs, puffs, sighs and murderous gazes don’t work either. Just deal with it. Londoners do not like to stand in the middle of the carriages.

42. Don’t say things like “who do you have to sleep with to get this press release damnit” in the office. Not out loud at least.

43. Don’t have naughty skype conversations in the office…the screen is easy to hide, the face, not so much.

44. Always, always look around to see if there’s a queue formed somewhere. Nobody will believe you if you say you didn’t see.

45. If you find yourself somewhere near Green Park needing to pee, pop into Fortnum and Masons. They have all the nice soaps and moisturizers, and get this, the lady thanks you on your way out. Thanks you. Well, from the bottom of my, bladder, I daresay, you’re very welcome, m’dear!

46. If you need a place to stay that’s nicer and cheaper than a hotel…look up THINK apartments. They have them all over the city. Nice, new, big, affordable. With nice, new, big showers. Like big enough to fit more than…ohhhhh!

47. The bouncers in the East End are so much nicer than the ones in the West. They won’t tell you to “go smoke over there.”

48. What’s more, they’ll hold up the velvet rope only so that you can finish your cigarette before you go in! Dude, are you fo’ real?

49. Oh and speaking of smoking and the East End…the people there actually don’t want your cigarette because they prefer to have their rolled up ones. Like, can we be best friends?

50. Polo events really have little to do with horses, mallets and balls. Its all about the champagne.

51. The good thing is, when you’re not following the polo and someone asks you which team you’re rooting for, you can always say the Veuve Clicquot Team! I’m practically the sponsor!

52. If you go to Polo posing as press…at least have the name of the magazine you “write for” in mind, before you get there. Horse&Hound doesn’t quite work in this scenario.

53. Also, when you’re going to polo, don’t buy a new dress for it. You may feel like a Pretty Woman, you may even be a Pretty Woman, but you don’t have Richard Gere’s credit card in your pocket.

54. You know how you sometimes think it might be a nice idea to go explore a part of London you’ve never been to, like say, Brixton? Bad idea.

55. Try not to giggle every time the announcer on the Piccadilly line says Cockfosters. What are you, twelve?

56. When somebody comes up to you in the middle of a lovely al fresco lunch you’re enjoying and says, “could you spare some change, love, I just lost my job?” Don’t respond with the words, “I don’t have a job!” You may not have a job, but you are eating a £15 salad doll.

57. The Sunday Times is so much better when it gets delivered to your door in a little baggy with your name on it! Excuse me darling, that’s not The Sunday Times, that’s My Sunday Times.

58. The next time there’s a tube strike, there’s going to be a me strike. Sorry, I’m just not coming into work today. If you want me there, send a cab to pick me up. Avec sexy chauffeur please.

59. When a married man says to you, “what you need is a married man,” you can be pretty sure he’s referring to himself.

60. You know those stupid emails you get from TFL with the subject heading “Planned Closures?” Read them.

61. When you’re on the Eurostar heading back from Paris, make sure you have a bottle of champagne with you. It makes the pain of leaving Paris more bearable.

62. Also, it makes all the drunken Brits on the train more bearable.

63. Or maybe, it makes you one of them. Eh, po-tay-to, po-tah-to.

64. When you call up to get a National Insurance Number, the first question they’ll ask is why you want one. Don’t say, “is that a trick question?” Don’t say, “isn’t it your job to know why I need one?”  Don’t say anything clever or sarcastic and don’t even tell them the truth, which is that you have no idea. Just make sure you use the words job and employer and you’re good to go.

65. London may be a big city, but it’s a friggin’ small world. Don’t think you won’t bump into people. You will. And its always the wrong people. Yes, at the wrong time.

66. Don’t go to the Supperclub for supper. Counterintuitive, I know. Trust me, avoid the supper, enjoy the club.

67. Don’t ever assume someone is gay. London is full of metros. Even the gays are sometimes metro.

68. You know those lonely uneventful weekends in the summer when no one’s around? You’ll miss them in September.

  

69. I don’t remember what its called, and I don’t remember exactly where it is, but somewhere in Clapham is the best Italian ice cream in London.

70. Before you leave the country with plans to renew your visa outside the country…make sure you check all the requirements. Applying inside the UK and applying outside the UK are two very different things.

71. Before you leave the UK to apply for your visa outside the UK make some nice friends who will take care of all your belongings, bank statements, and boyfriends for you.

72. When you’re going to a house party make sure you know who the host is. That way you wont end up convincing them to leave this dull party!

73. Also BYOB and BYOI. Ice, that is.

74. Wait, maybe just don’t go to house parties. Although, house parties are one of the few times you can smoke indoors…

75. Don’t wear heels to a house party. Nobody in London has as many chairs as friends. And friends of friends.

76. 6am is a really interesting time to walk around London. It’s the only time of day when joggers and whores cross paths.

77. Going away for the weekend can sometimes be cheaper than spending it in London.

78. Going to Windsor for the weekend doesn’t actually qualify as going away. Its only a 45 minute drive. Which in some cases is shorter than the time it takes you to get to work in the morning.

79. Don’t book hotels and pack for Windsor. Just drive back home in the evening.

80. Always make friends with the bartender. And he’ll always throw one in on the house, love!

81. Stay away from the ducks in Hyde Park. They’re not a happy bunch.

82. Boozy lunches are all well and good until you realize you have to go back to the office.

83. No, boozy lunches are all well and good until you realize you have a hangover…at 8pm.

84. Waitrose isn’t really all its cracked up to be. The little independent delis and markets are so much better. And so much more expensive. Of course.

85. Yes, in London, even vegetables can be a luxury. I’m sure that white asparagus has traces of gold.

86. And don’t even get me started on all the health foods.

87. Health foods may have long labels saying gluten-free, dairy-free, cholesterol-free, fat-free, but the price tag will tell you there’s nothing effing free about them!

88. When you get an envelope from Barclays that’s fatter than usual, you might want to open it.

89. No wait, want is precisely the opposite...you have to.

90. It’s so much easier to not spend money when you don’t have any. This may apply to anywhere in the world, but only London can really teach it to you.

91. If you can avoid direct debit—do. Direct debit = direct (and sneaky) blow.

92. Do not, do not, do not leave your Blackberry at home. You won’t be able to change plans with anyone, you won’t be able to Google Map anything, and you won’t have anything to play with to avoid making eye contact with that person staring at you on the tube.

93. But when you do forget your Blackberry, don’t use the payphones. They’re cute and red and symbolic and all, but erm, people piss in them. And,  it costs like 2 pounds per minute or something.

94. Remember that time you popped into Oddbins and they had some competition running, and you gave them your email address? Un-sub-scribe.

95. Receiving weekly emails for special offers on champagne is masochism.

96. When you accept a job, make sure the office is not within walking distance of Selfridges. If it is, then just instruct your employer to make your paycheck out to Selfridges. That’s where it all goes anyhow.

97. Don’t put languages you don’t actually speak on your CV. They do actually test you sometimes. And the little bit of French you can speak in bed, is not the same little bit of French you can speak in the office. “N’arretes pas” is not a viable response to anything.

98. Sometimes the job interviews you think you did the worst in, are the interviews that actually get you jobs.

99. Then again, sometimes it’s the Ralph Lauren shirt you wore that got you the job.

100. And just remember, if and when London gets you down, you can always count on Lauren.

don't SMOKE and SWIM; contemplations on VICE and VIRTUE

This picture is actually a card that somebody once gave me. Somebody that obviously knows me very well. For those of you who don’t, I’ll say this: I speed-walk, I swim, I work out, I dance, and on most days, all of the above. As of this Sunday, I will also be a certified instructor in ZumbaFitness, which, to borrow the card’s words, might simply be called “high intensity speed aerobics.” But to use the rest of the card’s words, I should add that I am also a certified, and champion, (chain) smoker. So make what you wish of my virtue, but please allow me my vice.

And seriously, don’t smoke and swim. I tried. It doesn’t work.

HAVEYOUHEARD?...of orthorexia? Apparently it’s a type of eating disorder, “characterized by a focus on eating healthy foods.” Basically the idea is something like this: When we speak of health, or healthy eating, in all its multifarious dimensions, we could quite possibly find something “unhealthy” in just about anything. Anything that tastes good, that is. So, if you’re going to go down the gluten-free, dairy-free, sugar-free, preservative-free, cholesterol-free, joy-free route…where it ultimately leads you, is to a destination that is essentially food-free. And for someone who has an eating disorder, that is, doesn’t want to eat, for whatever reason, this is the perfect excuse. Rather than saying “I don’t want that cheeseburger because I’m fat and that burger will make me fatter,” they can say, “I don’t want that cheeseburger because that cheeseburger has ketchup on it and that ketchup has E-6734 in it.” Or, “I don’t want that cheeseburger because my doctor told me to avoid gluten, or dairy…or pleasure.” Then, they pop a dietary supplement pill and proceed to glare yearningly at the fries. This is why, I imagine, all dietary supplements come with the warning: “Food supplements must not be used as a substitute for a varied and balanced diet and a healthy lifestyle.” I don’t speak doctor very well, but I think what this means is, “Nice try, but you can’t live on pills, doofus.”

***

So, first things first, don’t worry mom, I don’t have it. The reason I begin with orthorexia, is partly because I’m going to write about health, healthy eating, and one health food store in particular. But the other reason I thought an eating disorder might be a good place to start is because eating disorders are all about contradictions—starve, then binge (binge-eating), or binge then throw up (bulimia), or lose weight but feel fatter (anorexia). And though I don’t and have never suffered from any of these, being a speed-walking, swimming and super-fit smoker…let's face it, I’m all about the contradictions.

***

Perhaps the first contradiction in all of this is that I am an absolute epicurean, if not hedonist, when it comes to food. Suffice it to say that if I could choose to be reincarnated as anything in the whole wide world, I would probably ask to come back as a stick of butter. So, the idea of health food stores, (as with the idea of eating disorders), is quite alien to me, if not one I chuck under that general umbrella of “bullshit.” And yet, I have lately become a health food fanatic. Actually, I’m not so much a fanatic of the food itself, but more of the shop that I get it from, and even that’s a bit of a stretch because I’m actually just a fanatic of the lady who works there.

***

Note: I don’t think my obsessive trips to Health Craze should be read as any indication of orthorexia. Rather, I see them as wholly symptomatic of a whole other disorder (or vice) that I admittedly and guiltily suffer from—shopaholism. Turns out it doesn’t matter whether its stilettos or supplements. It’s all about the Benjamins. Incidentally, it was Benjamin Franklin who once said, “Search others for their virtues, thy self for thy vices.” And I see a lot of virtue in that Benji, but what to do when you are my vice?

***

It all started late one Sunday night. (The lady was still working at 9.30pm on a Sunday!—read: virtue). I walked in there…described my symptoms, and with a quick look at my tongue and a short “hmmm,” she concluded: “No grapes, no orange juice, no raw tomatoes.” Considering I pretty much lived on these three things, and so they quite probably were the cause of all my problems, I figured she was on to something. It was love at first prescription. “No beer, no wine,” she continued. It has hate at second. I was tempted to foolishly ask, “does that include champagne?” but knowing well and full that this “no” would break my heart, I slyly avoided it. “Spirits are OK though,” she then added. Annnndddd….we’re back in the game! (Also, I listened very carefully, and at no point in time did she say “no cigarettes,” so it was love at lack of prescription too.)

In addition to the list of nos, she gave me a handful of bottles saying…“take these once a day, and these twice…and, dear…try being a bit selfish.” (Somehow my tongue, or face, or something had also told her that I “care too much for other people and not enough for myself”). But, how often should I do that, I wondered. Instead of asking out loud however, I figured I’d just take the lack of specification to mean that it would be ok to overdose. So while I may not be orthorexic, I do see where they’re going with the whole “use health as an excuse” thing. Not for burgers though, but something like: sorry, I can’t be in this relationship anymore, my doctor told me to be selfish. Being selfish, it turns out, does wonders for your health.

***

Anyhow, this morning, I ran out of one of my supplements, so I ran out to get some more. I left in such a hurry that upon returning home I discovered that I hadn’t even made my bed! Now, that may mean nothing to you, but I think the only other time in my life that I didn’t make my bed was one morning in New York when I stumbled out of a room at the Waldorf and couldn’t figure out how I got there or what my name was…but I think its fair to say I had greater concerns than making the bed. Besides, there’s housekeeping for that. I did however, manage to grab the most adorable little Waldorf Astoria jar of gummie bears on my way out. If I recall correctly, I think I ate every single one of them on the way home and while you may be thinking “bulimia nervosa” I think it was more a case of “WTF-happened-last-night-nervosa,” or “dude-where’s-my-car-nervosa,” if you will. But moving on swiftly. That was all clearly, before my health fanatic era. Or perhaps I should say…hence, the health fanatic era. (In case you were wondering, I still have the jar, and I still hope that one day it'll function as some Proustian memento and help me figure that night out).

***

Anyhow. I got to the shop at 9.17 this morning, which according to the sign on the door, meant that it should have been open already. But it wasn’t. And as getting my fix was more important than anything else that needed doing, I decided to just wait. (Ah, the things we do for our dealers). Considering I was in my health fanatic uniform of trainers and top-to-toe lycra, I thought it all the more fitting that I stood there, as some sort of advertisement—a real, flesh and blood mannequin, you might say. Shop here, wear lycra, look like THIS!

But that commercial went from good to bad in less than a minute, when I did what we smokers do to pass the time and lit a cigarette. As Moliere said, “I prefer an interesting vice to a virtue that bores.” Which is to say, while patience is a virtue, smoking is more fun. Especially when you’re waiting. Incidentally, whenever I’ve stood at a bus stop with my dad, he’s said, “Let’s light a cigarette. That always makes the bus come.” My mother on the other hand, would say something along the lines of, “You’re going to have to throw it away when the bus comes anyway, so why don’t you just try not having one? Think of it as your first step towards stopping smoking...” Perhaps I should blame my contradictory upbringing for my contradictory attitudes towards health?

***

And while I’m totally with dad on that one, this morning, it didn’t work. Or maybe “health shop lady” is not the same as “bus.” I lit up and lit up, but to no avail. Eventually I gave up on both virtue and vice (patience and smoking) and speed-walked away (to the pool, actually). But while I was waiting, I did read through the countless newspaper articles stuck in her window…and what I discovered was that the same lady who had told me to “be a bit selfish” was the one of the most selfless people I knew. She has run this shop for over twenty years, sleeping only 4 (or no!) hours a night! Her sleepless nights are spent reading up on some new product she is thinking about stocking. Now, if that’s not virtue, I don’t know what is. So…where was she? Had she too, finally sacrificed her selfless and virtuous duty to pay a bit more attention to herself? Good for her, I thought. Sleep, like selfishness, is healthy too. Turns out, when it comes to health (and happiness too for that matter, for they are oh-so-linked), it isn’t always clear what’s a virtue, and what, a vice. It’s more a question of sacrifice. Sometimes we have to sacrifice what’s “selfless” for what’s “selfish;” or instead of a burger, to order the fish; sometimes we must smoke while we wait, and swim when we get fed up. That's what it means to be selfish: we have to decide for ourselves, which is virtue, which is vice, and which of the two is "healthier," "happier," or simply, best. That is, at least until we figure out how to smoke and swim at the same time.

this is how we do; 10 things writers do in order to...write.

“A writer never has a vacation. For a writer life consists of either writing or thinking about writing.”

- Eugene Ionesco

So, I’ve been doing a lot of writing lately. Working by day, blogging by night, and scribbling down just about any thought that comes into my head (or obsessively Facebooking and emailing) in between. Besides the weekend in college when I read the entire first volume of Proust and only stopped to pop another caffeine pill, and the week before the dissertation deadline when I stupidly, stupidly, stupidly! decided to rewrite the entire last chapter despite the fact that it had been done for months (and only stopped to pop another…no, never mind), this has perhaps been the most productive week of my life. And I can proudly say there were no pills involved. Turns out, while writing can be “a dog’s life” as Flaubert said, it can also be pretty great. You get to work from home, which in my case is a beautiful one; you get to set your own schedule, which in my case is non-stop save for the 5 minutes I spend on Jeremy Clarskon; you get to wear whatever you want (which as you’ll soon learn, varies); and most importantly, and you probably know what’s coming next, you get to smoke. Correction, you get to chain-smoke. What? I’m a writer. It’s how we do. Dawg. (I hope my landlord doesn’t read my blog—its fiction, all fiction, dawg). But between the words and the cigarettes, I also got to thinking about other things we writers do. For while it may all seem cool and breezy to your average office slave, it still is, nonetheless work. And precisely in order not to be cool and breezy about it, there are certain things you need to do. To force, encourage or inspire yourself to work. So, as I’m totally riding the list train lately, here are ten things writers, or this writer does, in order to make it happen.

1. Dress like you’re going sailing or yachting. You know, lots of navy, lots of white, TODS moccasins, maybe a little scarf if you really want to go all out. This way, every time you get up to go and pee and you see yourself in the mirror…you’ll feel like you’ve just stepped off your yacht and are about to step back on. Works like a charm, this one. There is, after all, some truth to the whole fake-it-til-you-make-it business.

2. Drape your chair with some silk or velvet so that it looks more like a throne than a work chair. Ick, really don’t like the w word. Actually…maybe mine looks more like a gypsy’s or fortune teller’s chair right now, but whatever, as long as it doesn’t look like a writer’s one, it’s all good.

3. Turn off your phone. Boy do I love doing this. Sorry mom, I’m fine, I’m alive, I’m well. Nobody killed me on the way to the supermarket, no lamppost fell on my head, I’m not lying in a ditch. I’m just writing. And yes, I brushed my teeth. Stop worrying.

4. Listen to opera. Preferably in a language that you don’t understand. That way you wont stop working to get up and sing along every once in a while. Damn you MJ. No, no, no “pretty lady with the high heels on”…sit, work, write! “You give me fever like I never ever known!” What? My iPod was on shuffle!

5. Don’t put the iPod on shuffle. “Sex bomb sex bomb you’re my sex bomb! You can give it to me when you…” in fact, remove Tom Jones and co. from your music collection altogether. Awww, but my neighbors will be disappointed! The ones across the way who see the show that is, The Sex Bomb Sailor show! The ones above and below me will probably be grateful. (Oh those “above and below” innuendos are so inviting…but I’ll stay away from them for now. That’s the other thing writers do—we focus.)

6. Empty the ashtray every once in a while. No, not much inspiring or thought provoking in this one, but it still needs to be done.

7. Which reminds me. Open the windows. Call it whatever you want but it’s supposed to resemble an office not a hotbox.

8. Don’t put Jeremy Clarkson’s Sunday Times Column on your desk as incentive to hurry up with your work so you can get to your pleasure. The face he has in that picture just says, “I’m bored, and you should just give up, you’re never, ever, going to be me.” (Gee, talk about a picture saying a thousand words).

9. If you’re going to drink while you write (and I try, for the most part, not to) don’t leave the bottle on your desk. Put it somewhere far away in the fridge, so that in the time it takes to walk over you might think twice before refilling that glass. If you don’t, you’ll just refill and empty your glass to the rhythm of the sentences…and after a while, the shentences, let me tell you, the shentences, are bound to lose their…rithim. Hic!

10. Whatever you do, don’t consult the Urban Dictionary as a reference. You’ll come across hundreds of interesting new words…or old words with new meanings…and you’ll find yourself reading through the 919 synonyms for “pussy” instead of writing 919 words of your own. “Dick mitten.” It was a tough call, but that has to be my new favorite. Incidentally, it’s also called a “pearl hotel.” Fancy that!

go get em' frankie! - on the perks of living alone.

"I grew up with six brothers. That's how I learned to dance -

waiting for the bathroom."

- Bob Hope

You know, Frankie was on to something with the whole “My Way” thing. I mean sharing is caring and all…but “my friend, I’ll say it clear, I’ll state my case, of which I’m certain…” and my case, is that I’m done with that. Done. With. That. I have, as I’m sure most people have, lived with parents, grandparents, other family members, total strangers, boyfriends, friends, flatmates, flatmates who weren’t friends, flatmates who became friends, flatmates who became more than friends, flatmates who became more than friends and then became less than friends, way way less than…you get the drift. And for the first time in a long time, I finally live alone. And I absolutely love it. Sure, there’ll probably come a day when I slip and fall in the shower and will need someone to help me up, a lightbulb that will need changing, or a day when I’ll just get plain lonely…but we’ll cross, (or jump off) that bridge when we get to it. And by “we” I of course mean “me.” Right now however, all “we” can see are the perks. And boy are there many…

1. You can live on chicken caesar salad everyday…and you, in true Caesarian fashion, get to decide when you’re bored of that. And, truth be told, I just don’t think that’s ever going to happen.

2. You never have to worry about having the last one of anything. “No you have it.” “No you have it.” None o’ that.

3. You can open things with things you’re not supposed to open things with. Like butter knives and teeth. And nobody’s going to tell you not to.

4. And after you’ve opened the jar with a butter knife, you can stand over the kitchen counter and eat all the stuffed green olives in it. And be completely satisfied with that as dinner.

5. Or be completely satisfied with just cigarettes. Yum! (No, mom, I don’t really just have cigarettes for dinner, stop worrying).

6. You can smoke in bed. (I don’t do that either, but I like knowing that I can). And I’m sure that if and when that “right” moment comes along…I most certainly will thank you very much.

7. And speaking of “right” moments, and wrong moments…you can bend over to put dishes in the dishwasher, or to do your hand-washing in the bathtub without worryi—no, never mind, scratch that. TMI.

8. Nobody is going to “accidentally” wash your cashmere, or silk, or wool, or lingerie with the linens on 90, in the name of “doing you a favor.” You what, you didn’t know? No sweetheart, you didn’t think.

9. You can laugh out loud over something you read on your computer and you don’t have to explain to anyone what it is you’re laughing over. (Like your own jokes for instance. It totally works to laugh at your own jokes when you're on your own. What's more, you kind of have to. Otherwise nobody will).

10. In fact you can spend long hours in front of your computer facebooking, skypeing, googling, wikipediaing, or you-tubing, without being questioned on whether that is a legitimate use of your time or intelligence. Yesterday I spent a good hour reading up on St. Pancras and the pancreas. This is because last week, when I went to King’s Cross, the tube conductor said over the loudspeaker, “this is King’s Cross St. Pancreas.” Not PANCRAS, PANCREAS. I swear that’s what he said. And this got me thinking, are the two related? So I googled it. One’s a saint (or train station named after a saint, if you will), the other, a gland. Ipso facto, not related. That’s what I thought. Also, I randomly came across a video of a one-legged salsa dancer. Again, totally unrelated. But totally awesome. Check it out:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hnsz8Uc3enE&feature=related

(PS. I love how the last word in that link is…RELATED! Maybe it all is, somehow…Google?)

11. The toothpaste always has the cap on. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not exactly the saint-of-all-things-closed—I leave drawers and stuff open all the time—but the toothpaste? Toothpaste is just one of those things you have to close.

12. Everything is Always. Exactly. Where. You. Left. It.

13. You can file, buff, and paint your nails whenever and wherever without worrying about the sound or the smell bothering anyone. And without getting a lecture on the coffee table varnish. Sorry dad. I promise. I won’t do it again. (But my nails are gorgeous, thanks for asking!)

14. Nobody’s going to judge you for buying the expensive toilet paper. (There should probably be another sorry dad somewhere in here). The thick fluffy one with snowflakes on it and adorable puppies on the label. Love that stuff. Correction, my tush loves that stuff. Doesn’t yours?

15. When you forget to get the (fancy) toilet paper out of the shopping bag you’ve just brought home…you can hop out of the bathroom with your knickers round your ankles and get it. Oh come on, we’ve all done it. (And if you haven’t, then you should probably try the fancy toilet paper. That stuff is worth the hop).

16. You can pee with the bathroom door open. I don’t know why I like this so much, but I do. It feels very Louis XIV…l’âge d’or, or something. Incidentally, in his time, he was one of the few (or only) people who actually had their own bathroom. But knowing him, he probably just ordered everyone to piss off (pun intended!) and left the door open anyhow. (And just to give credit where its due, I’m sure it was so much more than a door—the entrance to Louis’s bathroom quite possibly closely resembled the gates of heaven).

17. The toilet seat is always down. Down and clean. I just don’t get how they manage to spray it everywhere in the first place. You have a pointer for crying out loud! What do I got? (Not you, Louis, I’m sure you had control down, even in that department).

18. It seems a lot of the perks of living alone revolve around peeing. What can I say? I drink a lot of water. And a lot of coffee. A lot a lot.

19. Which reminds me—no one is going to count the number of cups of coffee you drink. Ahhh…encore garçon encore! Wait, there’s no garçon. But that would be nice, no? A little butler boy? Do a little dance, make a little love…roast a little chicken?

20. Ok. Focus. I’m focusing. Back to quantities—nobody is going to question whether you really need all those pairs of shoes. Need? When did that become the categorical imperative? You don’t really need that attitude, but you have it don’t you? And boy do you wear it well. (See now my butler boy, he wouldn’t have an attitude…)

21. As for “wearing:” you can take as long as you want to get ready…and actually, when there’s no one else around…turns out it doesn’t take that long at all.

22. I’d like to say you can walk around naked all the time…but I have big windows and a lot of them, so, that doesn’t really work. Yep. I learned that the hard way. Tweet Twee-eet. I suppose I could crawl around naked though. I should give that a go…

23. But speaking of crawling, this is a big one: You never ever have to tip-toe. I did ballet for almost ten years so I think its fair to say that I’m done with the whole tip-toe business.

24. Which sets us up for the coup de grace. You can be sure that when your Sunday Times is delivered early on Sunday morning you won’t wake anyone up when you pop down to get it…

25.…And most, most, most importantly: nobody will touch it before you. Jeremy Clarkson and I…All alone………

Now, tell me, what could be better than that.

feng shui-ing the shit out of my shit; lessons learnt in packing.

Salvador Dali

“keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.”

- joan didion

“I think I’ve just figured out why you’re always packing, unpacking and repacking,” somebody once said to me, “it’s because there is so much chaos inside your head that you cannot conceivably order, so you psychotically arrange and rearrange all the tangible things within your reach…and you delude yourself into believing that what you are actually doing is somehow miraculously folding up all of your thoughts and packing them away into neat little drawers and labeled boxes. Well let me tell you something darlin’, pack away all you want, feng shui the shit out of your shit, but you, will still, always, have chaos in your head.”

He was a very intelligent man—perhaps one of the most intelligent I have ever met—so I valued his analysis, I wholly agreed with it, understood it, believed it, took it to heart…but that didn’t change much. I still obsessively pack, unpack, repack and rearrange whatever and whenever I can. (When I can’t, like when I’m sitting in somebody else’s house, I do it anyway in my head. All my time spent indoors is essentially one long exercise in virtual reupholstering). And I still believe I am somehow putting my thoughts into order. Or at least axiomatically approaching order. And regardless of whether I succeed in inching towards order, I do learn something each time. So after a weekend of packing, moving and unpacking here are some things I learned. In, of course, something like order.

1. I have a lot of shit. (Somehow this is always the first realization and it always seems to come at the wrong time—as in, after you’ve acquired it, when you need to carry it, not while you’re contemplating buying it and cooing over just how pretty it is!)

2. Bin liners are my new best friends.

3. Some half-a-dozen bin liners later, I still have a lot of shit.

4. So far, so good, lessons being learned, but truth be told, the moment I’m settled and unpacked, the first thing I’m probably going to do, is go out and get more shit.

5. (Prophecy fulfilled. I did in fact, go out and get more shit. Like a big clothing rack. But I carried and assembled it all on my own which was a revelation in itself).

6. And hangers. On a side note, nobody in London seems to know what clothes hangers are. CLOOOO-THESSSS HAAANNNGGGG-ERRS. Pantomiming taking off your clothes and hanging them really doesn’t help. In one shop, a guy nodded and brought me clothes pegs. Not bad I thought…close enough, they technically do “hang clothes.” But in another, get this, he brought me a box of firelighter cubes. Sure, I’ll say it again, firelighter cubes. Erm, sorry, but what about my whole song and dance of taking off my clothes and hanging them up suggested to you that I wanted to set anything on fire?

7. Is this some cosmic sign telling me to really purge myself of my belongings?

8. And on that note…It’s all well and good that I have a lot of notebooks, and boxes, and postcards, but lighters? I have a lot of lighters. Like a lot a lot. What can I say? The only thing worse than not having a cigarette is having one and not having a lighter.

9. That, and obviously, I’m rather forgetful. Or my memory can’t keep up with my nicotine addiction.

10. I did consider stopping smoking. I even purposefully walked down the whole Nicorette aisle at the pharmacy. Nicorette gum is £18!?!??! It’s chewing gum for chrissakes! Screw that. That’s three packets of cigarettes. (Besides, buying Nicorette gum would technically fall under the category of “acquiring new shit.” And I’m totally trying not to do that.)

11. Packing lends itself generously to positive ideas like, stopping smoking, or feasible positive ideas like giving things away. I did. A lot of things. For example, some Oxfam shop now has a sizeable collection of designer shopping bags. Just think…you can go to Oxfam and buy a £5 lamp, and they’ll put it in an Agent Provocateur shopping bag! That’s nice, no?

12. And speaking of agents, I think that in a previous life I was a member of the French Resistance. I have not one, not two, but four berets. And I don’t recall buying any of them. Its as if they mysteriously appeared in my wardrobe as some persistent totem of my previous allegiances. (This thought stopped me from donating them to charity).

13. Before joining the resistance, I must have been a zookeeper. A good one at that…for I was obviously awarded with the occasional bonus of some animals to take home and skin. What remains from that life: a crocodile bag, a crocodile belt, snakeskin heels, snakeskin flats, a snakeskin clutch, a rabbit fur hat, a fox collar (head, eyes and tail included!), a coat with a fox collar, a sheepskin waistcoat, sheepskin boots, an ostrich wallet, an ivory bracelet, and one made of green sting ray leather. Sting ray! Obviously, I didn’t give any of this away either. What, I don’t want to offend anybody. Or inflict on someone the trauma of getting shouted at on the tube! “I can assure you that that fox would be much better off alive than sitting there as a trophy around your neck!” somebody once chastised me. Fox you lady, and besides, it was my grandmother’s so I’m sure the poor thing would long be dead by now anyhow.

14. Some things are easier to let go of than others. Turns out disposing of boyfriends is a lot easier than disposing of the stuff you collect from or with them…

15. I think there’s something in this whole feng shui business. Something about our things and how they reflect who we are. And also something in the saying “save the best for last.” It didn’t occur to me until I had already completely packed and moved out and gathered the very last of my belongings…it didn’t occur to me until after I had crossed several streets…and inspired several intriguing glances…it didn’t occur to me that I was walking through the city of London with a pillow and a champagne bucket. What that says about me I’m not sure, but I think I like it.