My London

29 Jul 2014

london blog - lifestyle blogPostman's Park, London Lifestyle Bloglondon lifestyle blog london photography and travel blog london lifestyle blog London Fashion Weekend AW 14 When I told my work colleague that I was moving to London, he said the following: "You think you'll spend every day exploring and doing something different, because you're in London, and that's what people always think when they move to London, but what will actually happen is you'll carve out your own little part of it, and never leave."

He was right.

If you were to live your life in my part of the capital, here is what you would do:
Go for breakfast pancakes at Tota. Get fed up with the poor service. Forgive all sins when the food comes out. Go through it all again for lunchtime steak sandwiches.
Go to the common, make promises you don't intend to keep about swimming in the Lido.
Head out for a 'quick drink' at The Clarence, have several more quick drinks than originally intended. Try your hardest to persuade the hot bartender to remove his t-shirt, find yourself having to apologise for acting like a sex pest next time you see him.
Have an internal debate over whether to go to Chicken Shop or Honest Burger, settle for something from Sainsburys. Regret your decision. Alternatively, settle for spring rolls. That's a decision you'll never regret.
Moan profusely about the northern line.
Talk to your housemates about your shared desire to make more time for central London (which I actually did for some of these photos - unheard of.)
Go to Infernos, do an enthusiastic rendition of The Inbetweeners dance.
Go to Adventure Bar, get your friend a screaming orgasm.
Spend a good amount of money on Uber and Deliverance, because London makes you lazy.
Pass out to the sound of foxes humping.
Repeat ad infinitum.

When not doing the above (or working, because I also have a job) recently I've been: Listening to - '500 miles' and 'AEIOU.' Reading - 'Lord of the Flies' and 'Girl, Interrupted.' Watching - 'Bling Ring' and 'Like Crazy.' Learning - the hard way

Cuckoo Clocks & Late Night Kisses

23 Jul 2014

charlotte's web london uk lifestyle bloglondon lifestyle blog cuckoo clockOn Sunday, at around 7pm, I arrived home from a night out with Sam, clutching a cuckoo clock my friend John had ripped out of the wall of our local pub. It was possibly the weirdest walk of shame ever known to man, whilst also being just about late enough in the day to get away with pretending I’d simply been shopping. Shopping with terrible hair. And no make up.

Unfortunately, this was not a walk of shame of the traditional kind. Instead, it was the 'I thought it would be a good idea to go home with my friend after a lock in this morning, and then we both thought it would be a good idea to watch Walk The Line, sing along with June and Johnny, and eat Skittles until 8am' kind. The kind that results in sleeping in your clothes and having mumbled, impossibly sweet, sleep addled conversations until you come to at 6:30pm, and realise you’ve just lost a day. The kind that leaves you bewildered by exactly how late it is when you stumble into Caffe Nero and they tell you that they’re closing. The kind that results in your housemates laughing in your face and accusing you of being both "hilarious" and "impossible" when they discover you gazing at the kettle as though it is your saviour. The kind that is worth every single moment, no matter how confused it leaves you feeling once it’s over.

But before I go off on a tangent regarding the merits of kissing and the drawbacks of sleeping in your contact lenses (it’s like ripping your own eyeballs out come morning light) let's get back to the cuckoo clock.

The first time I went to the pub in question, I was with Luke. We were having a drink to prove we could still be friends (which we are) and one of the first things I noticed upon walking in (aside from John standing at the bar, which was unexpected) was the abundance of cuckoo clocks. They made me nostalgic for a quirky cocktail bar I worked at during university, whilst also reminding me of my grandad's house, and I knew I had to have one. Two months, a short lived almost-romance with one of the bartenders, and hundreds of pounds spent on vodka, sambuca and wine later, the new manager, Adam, offered me one. Sam, too, as "the bar is due an update, and everything will be gone within the next few days."

Now, this offering was first made two weeks ago and, despite being extended more than once, neither of us had our new timepieces. Not yet comfortable with removing parts of our local and taking them home with us without express permission, we let it be. Until Saturday, that is. Saturday, with its random conversations (“when we do a naked calendar I’m just going to hold a pint in front of it, and have two really long straws” “I know your name isn’t Taylor Swift but that’s all I’m ever going to call you” “they have no running water at G.A.Y”) ridiculous outbursts of song (Sunglasses At Night) and an ongoing flow of double vodkas, felt like the right time. So it was with alcohol fuelled bravado that, as we were preparing to leave the lock in, I pointed to the clocks and demanded we be allowed to take them home immediately, despite a date for the refurb not yet being set. The reaction was a good one - John looked at Adam, Adam looked at John and then, with a shrug, the two of them stood on the sofas, unceremoniously pulled the clocks out of the wall, and handed them to us like trophies. We thanked them and left grinning like idiots, with what has to be the strangest souvenir we've ever gained from an unplanned evening in Balham.

It was a good night out.

I've been singing It Ain't Me Babe since.

Other memorable moments from the day include: Getting up early to queue for a free Honest Burger in Tooting, seeing the line, and heading to Brixton to pay for one instead. Buying a broken music box (pictured) at a vintage market, adding to the junk shop vibe my room already gives off thanks to that old desk (which is my favourite thing in the world.) Begging a bartender named Hoops to take his top off after seeing a photo of him shirtless - hot as hell, but he refused to succumb to our charms, so goes down to second place in the list of sexy shirtless bartenders we have been carefully curating. And a conversation - that took place during a scene of Walk The Line in which Johnny begs June to be with him - that made me smile:
Me: I hope someone feels like that about me one day
John: They will.
Me: How do you know?
John: Because you’re fantastic.

How To Survive, Pt.One (Of One)

14 Jul 2014

A song appropriate to the following post. (You're welcome.)

"You tell me to let it go, 
But I don't know how. 
I fall at your floor, 
I fall at your door..."

Recently, a guy I was seeing told me that he didn't want to be with me. His reason was that he likes me too much to involve me in his current life issues and that, while he didn't expect me to wait for him, he didn't want me to forget about him either. I found this statement as infuriating as it was upsetting, and have felt the need to repeat it to anyone that will listen on a daily basis since.

Following on from this experience, my friends have taken to giving (much appreciated, much needed) advice regarding moving on, remaining positive, and 'forgetting him,' as well as some home truths regarding my own approach to life. While this is all well and good and, as I've said, appreciated, there is something that makes me sad about the words "you're too kind," "you're too honest," and "you're too open." As a person that instinctively wears their heart on their sleeve, I find it difficult to imagine a life opposite to this as anything other than cold - especially as I believe that, as the great Zooey Deschanel once said, "being tender and open is beautiful. As a woman, I feel continually shhh’ed. Too sensitive. Too mushy. Too wishy washy. Blah blah. Don’t let someone steal your tenderness. Don’t allow the coldness and fear of others to tarnish your perfectly vulnerable beating heart. Nothing is more powerful than allowing yourself to truly be affected by things."

With this in mind...

If you want to survive heartbreak, remember it is OK to:
- Be on a total downer for weeks on end. Don't feel like pretending to be chipper when someone asks how your day was? Don't be. Don't want to 'stay for just one more drink'? Don't stay. Want to sigh dramatically and roll your eyes when someone tells you to smile? Do. It.
- Watch back to back episodes of Girls in bed whilst feeding yourself handfuls of Doritos straight from the bag. Ditto for Like Crazy, He's Just Not That Into You, The Break Up, etc and so forth.
- Drink, dance, and make it your mission to try on all of the hats in the bar (with or without owner's permission) (extra points if you can find a sombrero)

It is not OK to:
- Cyberstalk. Because no-one ever got over someone by staring at their photos on Facebook.
- Actually stalk. Because no matter how much you think you love them, they're not worth being arrested for.
- Get caught (by your male housemate, who is guaranteed not to understand) mumbling obscenities to yourself whilst eating ice cream straight from the tub - especially if you're wearing Care Bear pyjamas, haven't brushed your hair, and have evidence of the last crying jag all over your face in the form of none-waterproof mascara. It's just embarrassing for everyone involved. Neither of you will ever get over it.

Even though you think it's not OK, it's totally acceptable to:
- Believe with all of your heart that the person that hurt you is, essentially, still a good person, and to only want good things for them. It's OK to simultaneously wish you could inflict deep physical pain on them. Preferably in the area that makes them able to call themselves a man.

I know you're frustrated, but try not to:
- Throw your iPhone across the room in anger. A lot of problems in life can be blamed on Apple. This is not one of them.

Valuable lessons, I'm sure you'll agree. But wait! There's one more, and it is perhaps the most important one of all: the best way to survive when someone you've fallen for tells you, in a roundabout way, that while they don't want you to wait for them they actually do want you to wait for them, is not to wait. Because, as my mother would say, there are plenty more gingers in the biscuit tin. Which would make so much more sense if I'd told you before this point that the person in question was ginger...

I have to go buy more Doritos now. 


How To Have A Screaming Orgasm

24 Jun 2014

Unfortunately, this is not a post about what you almost definitely thought it was going to be about. As I am basically a nun these days, I wouldn't know where to start if it was. This is, instead, a post about Adventure Bar, a French barman, numerous Woo Woo's and an Australian's birthday party.

Allow me to begin.

It was a cold night in Clapham, and Lucinda was turning 28. To celebrate, a huge group of us were out at a bar. The drinks were flowing, the (best) steak sandwiches (I've ever eaten) were consumed, and we were having a fairly downhearted chat about men when Nicole and I decided to perk ourselves up by hiring a stripper. We googled, we plotted, we planned, and just as we were about to place an order we were shot down by the two bartenders (hello Mark and Comb!) who alerted us to the fact that they didn't have that kind of license. Not to be deterred, we asked what we could do instead, and were told that if we could convince someone to strip for us for free, they would allow it... Long story short I then made it my drunken mission to have one of these two men take their clothes off. As Nicole wandered off to join in the festivities (beer pong prosecco, the consumption of dead insects) I perched myself at the bar for between three and four hours, chatting to the two of them about anything and everything until finally, finally, beautiful hairy frenchman Comb agreed to perform his best screaming orgasm, right there on the bar. The video above is evidence of what went down - basically he made a drink in his trousers and then served it between Lucinda's legs - and also evidence of what might just be my greatest victory to date. I have never been prouder.

Additional details to remember: Dancing to the Neighbours theme tune, doing a free shot of baby Guinness, watching and re-watching this video in-between staring at Comb as Nic whispered "I have never been so attracted to anyone in my life," and not being able to control the impulse to take home all of the party hats, which now adorn the heads of anything with a head that happens to be in my bedroom... Best school night ever.

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