So, I live in London now. Everything is shaping up quite
nicely, except for the difficulty in pronouncing my home town, due to my
ungainly Northern accent. Someone spray
painted the word ‘glock’ on the side of my house the night I moved in, too;
perhaps to indicate a battle ground for gang warfare, or perhaps to demonstrate
the poor artistic capabilities of the vandals of Plaistow. Incidentally, Plaistow
is an absolute piss stain on the pants of London, a place where pie and eel
shops still actually exist and Kappa tracksuits are widely recognised as fashionable attire.
I had high expectations of Notting Hill Carnival over the
recent bank holiday. But alas, instead of dutty wining my way into the hearts
and minds of the London public, I embraced the Carnival spirit fully by
becoming a victim of crime. My purse was stolen in the urine soaked alley of a
“two pound a piss” portaloo, accounting the blame mostly to the person who
stole it, but slightly to my penchant for Red Stripe and small girl’s bladder.
As my purse disappeared into a crowd of a thousand nameless
faces; my identity washed away in a sea of tears, I clung to the thought that
this was my baptism of fire, and surely from this moment, the only way was up.
During my time here I have acquired myself an almost-stalker
after a stranger lifted my details off a flat sharing website. I also had a
celebrity sighting in Stratford; I have been told it was two ‘stars’ of The
Only Way is Essex, but I will ashamedly acknowledge my ignorance on the matter.
It has also emerged that the
dishwasher I have always longed for is harbouring a dark secret: a mouse. I
have yet to see him hiding behind it since, but I am watching and waiting in
anticipation.
But on a brighter note, in the words of Brian Butterfield,
everything is increbildle otherwise.
I’m almost certain I have a king size bed, the buskers here play the violin
instead of the penny whistle like at home, and I have a housemate who shares
the same passion for sweetcorn as I. Swings and roundabouts.
