About a Girl

Three Recent Conversations That Prove I am Losing It

Recent Blackberry Messenger conversation.

Friend (3:05pm): Shall we meet at 6?
Me (3:06pm): Sure, 6 sounds good.
Me (5:33pm): Oh My God! Totally running late!! Sorry!!
Me (5:34pm): I'm in line at a store right now and these stupid people are returning a freaking toaster. The nerve! Like, how long does it take to pick a new one! They all make toast! I'm giving them dirty looks right now. Jerks.
Me (5:34pm): Actually forget that. Had a moment of panick where I thought we had said we'd meet at 5.
Me (5:35pm): I'm totally going to be on time. Early, even.
Me (5:35pm): Am losing the plot
Me (5:36pm): Obviously did not look at the conversation right before my eyes before I sent that
Me (5:36pm): *mortified*
Friend (5:39pm): ?
Friend (5:39pm): You're funny
Friend (5:39pm): What the hell is wrong with you? It clearly says 6 right there (ok, she's too nice to say that but she was obviously thinking it.)

Recent in-car conversation, on the way to Tim Horton's.

Friend : So, the amount of money you spend on coffee if you buy it every day really adds up.
Me : God, I know. I used to go to Starbucks every day and the coffee there was, like, $2.50 every time. That's $7.50 a week!
Friend : ??
Friend : Where do you get $7.50 from?
Me : Well, $2.50 times two is $5, plus $2.50 is $7.50! Duh, obviously.
Friend : and how many days a week did you work?
Me : Five! (thinking about how dumb that questions  is .... )
Friend : So .....
(long amount of time elapses)
Friend : ..... that wouldn't be $7.50
Me: Right! Of course, it would be less than that.
Me : (finally getting it.) Oh, haha. ha. $12.50. Obviously. I knew that.
Friend: .......
Me : Hey, I never said I was good at math!
Friend: .......
Me : (oh my god. Die.)

Recent in-front-of-TV conversation while watching cheese horror sci-fi-ish movie set in some old era, where rediculous things happen like a horse transforms into a wolf right in front of our eyes. This one, actually.

Friend: This is a true story, you know?
Me: Oh my god, really? That is so scary! Those poor people!
Friend: *baffled* No, obviously I was joking. Horses don't actually turn into wolves, you know.
Me: Ha! I knew that. Obviously. Joke's on you, sucker
Me: (BAH! look cool! Don't let on that you feel like a total idiot right now! Talk about something else! Pretend to watch movie!)
Me: ...... (long awful silence)
Friend: (Why is she doing that thing with her eyebrows?!)
Me: ..... erm .... yeah.

Reluctant Yogi

These days, Tuesdays are yoga day for me, and today, a lady walked out of the class after 20 minutes. It was her first time doing yoga. And from my tree posture, I knew where she was coming from. Hoo, boy, I've been there. It sucks big time the first time you do it, I thought. The first time I did yoga, I wanted to quit during the first downward dog, which was actually the first pose of the entire practice that didn't just involve standing there. My little chicken arms were shaking more than a rickety second-class Vietnamese train carriage and there was no way I could have made it to 10 breaths in that position. And then that harlot of a yoga teacher went on to explain that this was actually a resting posture. Resting my ass. I was in pain, and the fact that people three times my age were holding the pose like they were born in it wasn't helping. In fact, if that had been a drop-in class, I probably wouldn't have gone back. I'd paid for each of the 12 sessions up front, and as it happens, the only thing I hate more than excruciating pain is wasting money. Fact.

So I went back each week for three long months, each time making a point to tell myself and anyone who'd listen that it's not for me. Of course, I didn't use the fact that I was weak as shit as my reasoning. Instead I made up stories about how it was too slow and what with that whole sleeping for five minutes at the end of the class? Did I really pay all that money to a snooze? La-ame!

But then, at the 11th hour -- also known as the second half of what I was sure would be the last class of my life -- yoga made a surprising comeback. While I was going through the motions, I suddenly came to the realization that I could touch my toes while standing without bending my legs at a near 90-degree angle. In fact, I didn't need to bend them at all. This might not seem like a big accomplishment, but it was something I hadn't done since I 10. I even complained to my dad about it when I was a teenager -- he told me if I wanted to touch my toes, I had to practice every day and I was all Pffffft, as if I'm going to do something stupid like bend over on a regular basis for flexibility. Boring. And yet here I was, doing it. And the downwards dogs weren't excruciating anymore, just mind-numbingly uncomfortable.

And I thought: If I can do that after 12 classes, what will I be able to do after 24? And 36? And so on?

So it was out of curiosity that I plunked down another $80 for the next session of yoga, and then the one after that, and then a membership to a yoga studio where I went four times a week. And I'll admit, after five years and god only knows how many downward dogs, I still can't do a headstand or the full wheel or half moon with any semblance of grace. But I had made little victories over the years -- I finally figured out that my inability to do tree posture wasn't because my pants were too slippery; now I'm a pro at it. And I can do the proper upward dog, without my knees on the floor. And perhaps the best achievement was being able to conquer those downward dogs. I can do all of them now, with one foot even. And I finally get what that ho-bag nice yoga instructor was saying about it being a resting posture -- It does sometimes feel good after you've been bending yourself like a pretzel.

Hell, the fact that I've done something healthy on a regular basis for five years is in itself an achievement. It's something I can and do feel good about all the time, especially when I touch my toes with my legs straight.

If I had that woman's email address, I'd definitely tell her all of this. Yes, it's hard, and yes, maybe it really isn't for you. But you never know -- maybe if you give it a chance, it will be worth it.

one more thing

In my list of things North American that I can't get enough of, I forgot one of the most important one.

Being able to shop past 6 o'clock or before noon on weekends.

Every store in the area I lived in -- aside from corner shops and convenience stores -- closes at 6pm every day. Which, considering I didn't get home from work until 6:15, was a bit annoying. Even the big grocery stores closed early -- if it was 8pm and you suddenly had a craving for, say, frozen yorshire puddings, you were outta luck. I got used to this, but the thing I couldn't get used to was nothing being open on a Sunday before noon. I can't even count the amount of times I'd dash to the store on a Sunday morning to do my weekly shopping and be totally annoyed to find out I still have a couple of hours to wait until the stores opened. The pubs were open, but not the stores. Go figure.

Now, I can grocery shop my heart out at 10pm on any day of the week. I don't, because I'm lame and am usually in bed reading at that time, but  the point is, I could. I have options.

Overdosing

Since I've been back, I've been making a concentrated effort to enjoy all the things I didn't have living in the UK. Ok, 'enjoying' isn't really the right word -- more like 'squeezing every last inch of use out of them by employing them in every possible way, kind of like how you use your fist and all your  upper body strength to squeeze every last bit of toothpaste out of that tube'. It's all part of savouring what you've got, right?

Here are some things in Canada I can't get enough of:

Fucking eh, My car.
I used to enjoy walking on warm winter days. I would make a point of walking my ass over to the bank or the Starbucks or whatever because, hey, sunshine and exercise and all that. Nowadays, after a year of not having the option to drive, of having to balance huge grocery bags on my aching shoulders, of having to always leave the house on time because I don't have the option of driving like a maniac to make up for lost time, my subconscious has decided that walking is clearly for chumps and as a result, I'm well and truly overdosing on driving. Case in point: I went to the gym the other day, and then decided to go to the Canadian Tire next door afterwards. I drove there. Yep, from one parking lot to the one next to it. Then I drove to the front of the parking lot so I could get the closest space possible, thus eliminating the extra pesky steps I'd have to take if I parked towards the middle. I hate people who do this. Or at least, I used to.

Hoodies.
In London, hoodies were for hungover Sundays when I was heading to the grocery store to pick up the bare essentials for my workweek. Or really cold sightseeing days when practicality outweighs the desire to look fashionable. Or for the (two) nights out when I intentionally wanted to look 'Canadian snowboarder cool', in which case I'd take extra precautions to do my hair and makeup just right, so that doesn't really count. London's just not really a hoodie kind of town when you're pushing 30. It's too stylish. And I'm not even a person who usually cares about such things but for some reason, heading to funky pubs or even just going on the tube in a hoodie felt wrong. Now that I'm back in good old casual Canada, I wear a hoodie every single day. And I'm not going to lie, it's usually the same one. Hey, I wash it. Sometimes. On a related note, working from home kind of rocks.

Sushi.
When I first arrived home, I had sushi for five meals in a row. That includes a couple of breakfasts. Enough said. Except I'll say this: I missed the raw seafoodfrom the Canadian prairie -- over a thousand kilometres from ths ocean -- when I was living on a small island? That's fucked.

Downtime.
In London, I felt like every second I spent on my sofa was time wasted, time that could be spent doing something fabulous. I don't feel that way about home. I've done it all. Ok, that's a lie but I've lived here long enough to do all I care to do. Now, insteading of spending my weekends on some mad, frantic tourist crusade mission, I spend my time on the couch watching Jersey Shore.

On that note, Oh my god, Cable.
I have 111 channels here and it's true -- there's usually nothing on. But after a year of having a do an extensive antenna dance every time I wanted to tune to the right channel to watch something, I'm happy just flicking through with the concentration of a zombie-like drone.

Half and Half.
They don't have half and half in England, much to my chagrin. Milk in coffee just doesn't cut it, and full cream is kind of appallingly digusting and overindulgent. Therefore, half and half totally rocks my world.

A dryer. And a normal-sized washing machine.
I can wash my clothes in the morning and wear them that afternoon. The insanity! And the washers here are so big, I can wear three different outfits every day for two weeks and still fit everything in the machine with room to wash my duvet too. I'm pretty sure I don't even own enough clothes to fit in that thing. It's crazy. Sure, it's probably killing the environment but oh, the convenience!

Not sharing a bar-sized fridge with three people.
I loved my roomates and we made it work but the fridge was fecking tiny. Where I'm living now, there are two fridges that are three times bigger for half as many people. I'm tempted to buy perishable food I have no intention of eating just because I can.

Reliable internet.
What a novelty. Again, amazed that I have better wireless in the countryside of the Canadian foothills than I do living in one of the biggest cities in the world, but I'm definitely not complaining.

Lessons Learned

Things I Learned This Year:

Italian hotel hair dryers are weird. 

How to drive standard (learned the hard way, by lying to the car hire agency in saying that I was an old pro, then praying to god I didn't stall on the way out of the parking lot. I pulled it off -- with a few minor glitches)

When someone lets you drive their car and the first thing you ask is which pedal is the clutch, it generally does not evoke a good reaction

'Nought' is, in fact, a number and can be used in sentences as such.

I rock at the game of cows.

Incidentally, there are a lot of cows in Ireland. And horses that look like cows.

I am unable to carry a clutch as a purse. Such actions will result in me doing something effing stupid like leaving in the bathroom of a three-story packed bar in Dublin on St Patrick's Day. Money and passport-carrying devices must have a strap that I wear on my person at all times.

Canadians must be incredibly resilient to handle snowfalls of an inch or more on a regular basis and still be able to function.

Although a bar fridge (North American term for what British people just call a 'fridge) seems small, you can actually fit about three times as much food in it as you thought was humanly possible. That's the inevitable conclusion when four people share a fridge of that size.

A tumble dryer is not a necessity. Nor is working TV. However, Coronation Street is but it can be listened to on a broken TV.

Hot water, however, is an absolute must. We were forced to survive without it for a mere 12 hours and did you know how many pots you have to boil to fill a bath tub? The correct answer is all the pots you have in your house time eleven. For what is essentially a sponge bath. Fucking eh.

In England, pants and trousers are two different things.

Frozen yorkshire puddings that are ready in the time it takes you to boil water for tea just might be the best thing ever.

about a home

There are plenty of things to dislike about London. There are queues everywhere, which is particularly frustrating when all you want to buy is a bottle of water before your train leaves in 30 seconds; loud noises assault you at every moment; there are so many rude people, especially on the tube; the good food shops all close at 6 and don't even open until noon on a Sunday; the weather, while on average warmer than Calgary, is really not that great, especially in the summer; more often than not, it stinks.

But jesus h, I miss it.

It feels like a bad break-up, you know the kind when any mention of your ex's name causes shooting pains in your gut and you feel like you can hardly breathe. The kind where you wake up at ungodly hours and, in a fit of panic, think "this can't be it," and "we never even had a proper chance." I guess I wasn't ready to give up on it, even though in mid-october I had firmly declared to myself that I had no good reason to stay ... besides loving it, of course.

That's not to say I regret coming here, or I wish I wasn't here. I love it here. It's my home. But I can always leave Calgary wrapped in the warm comfort of knowing that I'll be back, because I will: I'll always be back, it's my home. Leaving England is different. I know I'll be back, but it will never be like that again, I'll never live that life again and I feel like I needed more time to say goodbye to it. Ok, yes, that life was lonely and frustrating and most of the time it felt like there wasn't a single goddamn thing that could possibly go my way, but it was punctured with little moments of amazing joy and beauty, and it was filled with love from the incredible people who were part of my life over there. And that's what I miss -- not the queues or the rain or the tube. I miss those moments and those people. I miss the potential of those things.

Enough moaning though. Home is home. it's familiar and easy and all the struggles of life overseas have melted like snow in spring. There are good people here who have let me back into their hearts after being away so long. I came back for them and it's so, so worth it. I can buy a bottle of water in less than 10 seconds. I be in another part of the city in 20 minutes. I can use a debit card at stores. I can feel ok about sitting in a drive-thru line-up at Tim Hortons because I appreciate just the fact that I can get a double double at all. I can relax and regroup.

I love this city too. Well aside from the fact that I can't buy wine at the grocery store but I think I can live with that one.

about a birthday

'Ah, 20-something birthdays are ancient history for me,' someone said wistfully to me after I told them about my own big day the previous weekend. And it occurred to me: they are for me too, now. The next one is a whole new prefix and decade. It's such a cliche to freak out about age, but I kind of am and I'm not sure why. I suppose it doesn't help that my (younger) flatmate kept having these moments when she's turn to me and screech something along the lines of 'Oh my god, you're 29. AS IN 2-9. 29. Holy Shit! You're going to be 30. I can't believe it. 29. You're seriously 29'

 

Thanks, darlin'.

 

One thing I always think of on my birthday is the way my dad always made me breakfast. He always made the same thing -- two perfectly poached eggs on buttered toast; he knew it was my favourite. And when I stumbled out of my room on my 29th birthday, bleary-eyed from a couple of pints the night before, I was missing that simple moment from my past as I spooned some chocolate cake into a bowl. Meliss lurched out of her room before I got to the ice cream; 'What are you doing up?' she demanded. 'Um, eating breakfast,' I said. 'Shit. I'm meant to be making you breakfast in bed. You never get up this early!'

 

So she made me brought me breakfast to my spot on the couch as I watched Sex and the City. It wasn't poached eggs but it had the right ingredient: Love.

 

As for the rest of the day, it was perfectly self-indulgent. I went for a massage. I went for a nap. I spent two hours getting ready while sipping champagne. We went out for drinks in Covent Garden and it was fun but not oh-my-god-best-night-of-my-life fun. Meliss got drunk, got into an inappropriate fight and fell asleep, and then the tube was down and we had to take replacement but service so it could have been better but it could have been worse too. We went out the next night with some Irish friends and more than made up for it by having too much fun.

 

One thing interesting that happened: While at the pub in Covent Garden having birthday drinks, I saw a guy with bad hair at the table next to me writing something on a small piece of paper. He had been talking to a girl, a perfect Donna-from-90210-circa-1992 replica . Meliss and I had (discreetly) mentioned her look in a kind of 'dude, it's 2009' way but weren't being particularly mean or awful or doing anything mean like staring obscenely or giving dirty looks. We hardly paid attention to her, to be honest. We were too interested in our plate of nachos. A while later, I noticed the small piece of paper that buddy had been writing on had turned up right in front of us -- I don't recall him moving once the whole night so how it got there is beyond me. It said something along the lines of, 'Don't take the piss out of her, it's her 25th birthday and she's got a rare blood disorder so she's not long for this world.' Fucking 'el! I wasn't sure if it was a joke  or if I was meant to feel bad or something (I didn't because we hadn't really been directing our attention towards her anyway,) but it was just ... weird. Crossing the boundaries of socially acceptable weird. Plus, since when did terminal blood disorders become an excuse for bad 90s fashion? Honestly.

mind your manners

Central London was as packed as a mosh pit, and the piccadilly line was literally bursting with harried tourists. Having spent the day on my feet, I was desperate for a seat, and when a couple opened up a few stops from where I got on, I lurched for it. Then an elderly couple slowly fumbled on, walking in that achey way old people do. I looked to the teenagers sitting across from me, my eyes urging them to get up, the lazy sods, but they didn't so without hesitation I offered up my seat. It was gratefully accepted.

Now, I'm not looking for praise in any way -- they way I was brought up, this is just common sense and really, in the grand scheme of things, giving up your seat on the tube is one of the least selfless things you can do. It doesn't even earn a mention, if you ask me. But as I swayed with the movements of the train, I had a thought that's stuck with me since: If my dad were here, he'd be really happy. He'd say 'Good Job Mathy' and maybe he'd even have a little sentimental moment where he'd think, that kid turned out alright. I did ok. My dad was a man of honesty and integrity, someone who always stood up for what was right. I judge a lot of my actions by what he would think of them -- though I still do my own thing if my heart takes me that way -- and knowing I had done something that he would be proud of made me feel, I dunno, a bit more at peace with myself.

For various reasons, I've been really hard on myself in the last little while and that served as a reminder that, when it comes right down to it, I'm an ok person. I'm really just fumbling along, and sometimes I make bad decisions and hurt other people but at my core, I come from a good place.

....

Speaking of manners, Meliss thinks she's lost them. She thinks she much less helpful and willing to go out of her way in this massive city than she would be back home. I've been thinking about whether I agree or not.

I find that England is place of very formal manners -- in the workplace, anyway. Men will hold the door open for you, everyone  greets you with a 'Good Morning' and a nod, people say bless you and thank you and excuse me. It's actually annoying sometimes -- like on the double staircase, if I'm going up and a man is going down and he sees me, he stand to the side and wait for me to get to the top of the flight of stairs before going down himself. And because I am someone who doesn't like to put people out at all, I race up the stairs so the poor sod doesn't have to wait too long, but all the while I am thinking about how we totally could have both gone on the double staircase at the same time, you know? We wouldn't have even brushed arms.

Outside of the workplace? It's a whole other story. Men will literally run you over, shove you to the ground to get their asses in the last seat on the tube in rush hour. It's ruthless out there, and unless you want to be stuck at the end of the huge crown of people trying to jam their sweaty bodies onto a packed car, you've gotta be too. I'll admit I've cut off a suit or two to secure my place in the row, but I'll be the first one to offer that seat up if I think someone needs it. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen a seat offered and three of those times, it's been me doing the offering. A bit sad, innit?

Can I talk for a moment about line etiquette in England? I cannot believe the number of times that someone has blatantly tried to cut to the front of the line. The FRONT, not just budging in front of the second-to-last person in the line but the FRONT of the line. Like, who in their right mind would ever think that was even remotely acceptable? Maybe if there is some sort of medical emergency or what not but seriously! I tend to be a pretty non-confrontational person but I have started a couple of tube station quarrells (nothing serious, no need to envision me getting stabbed during rush hour) with people who do this, once on someone elses behalf. And no, fighting isn't good manners but I think it's ok when you're standing up for good manners.

So all in all, I think England has made my manners better. My formal manners have gotten a bit of practice, and I've been confronted with such rude behaviour that's its inspired me to be more polite in the hopes that it might catch on. Which it probably won't but a girl can dream, right?

about a rat race

Dear Potential London Employers,

Many thanks for your application for the role of My New Boss. I regretfully inform you that on this occasion, you have not been successful. Whilst your job description and salary offerings were attractive to me, I've decided your callous and continual rejection of me is not what I'm looking for at this point in my career. However, while not a single one of you have done me the courtesy of responding to inquiries as to why you consider me unsuitable for your role, I'd like to point out just a few inadequacies of your hiring process that I think you should work on:

1- I know you want to find the perfect candidate, but seriously?  True, you have a paying job that you need to fill and there are about five billion job seekers in this fair and expansive city, and so you do have the upper hand in this situation, and I'm all for thorough interviews, but do you really need to interview 25 people for an entry-level copy editor role (really, more like data entry from the sounds of it ... )that pays barely more than minimum wage? Couldn't you just pick the best six? I'm sure one of them will be suitable. And not to name names here, but can you really justify asking 15 of those 25 individuals to take an entire working day off to come in for a 'trial day' of building spreadsheets and writing total and utter nonsense? I have good references -- each of them can assure you that I can both build spreadsheets and write a sentence. Essentially, when you consider the lost wages, I PAID over £100 to prove that I know how to use excel and for what ... a 1 in 14 chance of making £9 an hour? Are you kidding me? By the way, about those spreadsheets, remember when I asked you five times what you wanted in the columns and five times you mumbled and bumbled your way through a random tangent for 15 minutes? I'd just like to point out that you never actually answered the question. Maybe you should work on your own copy editing skills?

2 - You're special -- but not that special. You do this a lot: You call me a couple of days after you receive my CV -- while I am at my other job -- and then instantly start quizzing me about aspects of the role, what I know about the company and why I think I'm suitable for it. And right away, you're judging me for saying 'um' and 'uh' twice in a minute but the truth is, I'm frantically searching my memory (and outbox) for some sort of clue as to which one this is. News flash: I've applied to dozens of other jobs this week, not just yours. I know this might surprise you, but I haven't pinned all my hopes and dreams on your company. Truth is, the reason I applied to you was because the job description had something in it that sounded like it bore some sort of resemblance to the career path I've chosen. Sure, I do think your position sounds great and interesting and your company seems cool and this job seems like something I could like and be challenged by and do a great job at, but seriously -- give me something to work with here. You're not the only company hiring in the Greater London Area.

3 - Sorry to say, but you're boring. I'm expected to be fabulous, dynamic, charming, witty, the best of the best. And you? You can't even be bothered to come up with one question that shows any sort of originality. It's like reading the same script over and over again, that's how UN-unique you are. And, while we're on that, what is with that question about where I see myself in five years? Can I even win with that one? All my answers seem to either peg me as over-ambitious, a potential competitor, too laid-back or just plain lazy. The real answer, of course, is this: In five years time, all I want is to not have to endure the constant humiliation of having to think of a clever answer to these textbook questions over and over and over again. Oh, and that question you all ask about how I'm finding the media job market? Hello? Does the fact that I am enduring this mortifying song-and-dance and performing this act for you like some sort of well-dressed circus monkey answer that one? And when you ask how many other interviews I've been to? Um, how is that any of your business?

4 - You're Fake. Oh, you say a lot of things while you're smiling at me and shaking my hand. You're so keen on me, you think I'd be perfect for the job, you don't have any concerns about my abilities whatsoever, you'll call me either way by the end of the week. Where I come from (it's actually a real city, by the way, not some simple, quaint, remote Canadian village like you make it out to be), there's a word for looking someone in the eye and saying things that you don't mean, and that word is LYING. And we also have a word for the people who do this: DOUCHEBAGS.

5 - Speaking of the douchebaggery. Yours is wearing me out. Do you have any idea how much I loathe putting on pantyhose, wearing skirts, applying liquid eyeliner on tuesdays, having to switch all my belongings into my 'fancy purse' and explaining to my boss that, once again, I had to take two hours out the middle of the day to go to yet another job interview and no, the last five didn't work out they just weren't the right fit thanks for asking? For crying out loud, I walked around central London with my skirt tucked into my nylons, exposing my thonged ass to everyone in the SE1 vicinity for god knows how long and it's all because of you. When I add up all the lost wages, the train fares, the cost of phone calls and the time spent carefully applying for your crummy roles, I could probably afford a month's worth of groceries, and we're talking the good groceries here -- the nice cheese, luxuries like Olives and Non-Generic detergent that I can't afford on my current wage. And when I think about the emotional cost--the anxiety of checking my phone every five minutes to see if you've called (you haven't, you never do), the constant weight of rejection on my shoulders, the feeling that I'm just not good enough and I don't know why because you won't call me back, god you're worse than an ex-boyfriend--it all just doesn't seem to be worth it, does it?

So, I'll keep you details on file, and I'll get in touch if something else opens up (HA! Remember when you said that?!? Good one!) but in the meantime, thanks but no thanks. Myself and any semblance of self-esteem I have left are taking a break from this ridiculous performance. I hope you understand that this is a business decision and not a reflection of you. Oh, who am I kidding. it is you. You suck.

Sincerely,
Frustrated Job Hunter. I'd give you my full name, but I can tell right now you didn't even bother to save it to memory (see also: DOUCHEBAG.)

random updates

I've been terrible about updating, but I'm back now and I'm trying. To start off, I'll give you just a small tidbit of my life -- as in, Five random facts about my life in London these days.

• I take at least three different tube lines every day. Well, every day that I go to work, anyway.

• The building I work in was once the home of John Keats (not to be confused with Yeats (inside joke).)

• I still go to bed ridiculously early. Old habits really do die hard. Though I will admit that I am awake to see 10:45 most nights, sometimes even 11.

• I now have 22 people in the phone book on my mobile. Though, to be fair, 1 is myself (my phone number is hard to remember!) 8 are people who live in other countries, 2 are random acquaintances I have never actually spoken to aside from the time we exchanged numbers and decided we would totally hang out (after a few drinks, obvs.) and 1 just moved away a few days ago (damn you, number 1 London friend!) So that leaves 10 people in London who I am in contact with. WOOT!

• The closest supermarket to my new flat also happens to be a service station. So as it happens, I do a fair amount of my grocery shopping at a gas station. Shut up! They have really good food!

++++

What have I been up to? Funny you should ask. I went to Canada, I went to a wedding, I drank a lot, I saw MC Hammer, I hugged a lot of people, I came back from Canada, I moved on the same day, I edited 2500 wedding photos, I made some new friends, I saw a football game, I fell in love with live football, I worked, I worked some more and now here I am facing a long week.

More shortly.