Recently I've decided to start calling myself a freelance social media manager and copywriter, much in the same way a binman from Bolton might decide to start calling himself the King of Norway.
But I actually have got some freelance copywriting work and I'm doing the social media for someone, so I guess I'm not being to... what's the word? I can't think of the word I mean. Maybe this copywriting business will be over before it's even begun.
Anyway, I'm don't want to blog about social media or copywriting. This can be my safe haven from Google+ and writing briefs and self-employment declarations.
Last Monday I went out for a drink with someone, to a little pub at Limehouse that looks out over the river. It's small and narrow, with red walls and low beams, like something out of The Shire. It just so happens to be owned by Gandalf, too.
No, really- it's owned by Sir Ian McKellen
Listen, the exciting part wasn't who owned the pub, but who was working behind the bar...
It was Mez- my friend at the pub in Paris, my Welsh MC rapping partner and sometimes fellow New York showbiz agent. Nice to see ya, kid.
I asked Mez if Sir Ian McKellen ever came in and she said she'd seen him once- he said hello to her in a booming voice and he was wearing a long, hooded white cloak. I'm lying about the cloak. (She did her last shift there last Friday, so don't bother trying to stalk her.)
It was one of those nights where suddenly something slides in your brain and you realise everyone in the room is your BEST MATE. Soon we were chatting to an American couple on the terrace who loved boats- the man was wearing a captain's hat- and an Australian businessman who was living on a boat in the marina. When he said that he didn't have any friends in London, I tried to persuade him to have a boat party so I could invite loads of people for him to meet but I don't think he was convinced... He ended up coming with us (by 'us' I mean me and the person I'd gone out for a drink with- I can't say 'my date' because that sound so American and odd) to a music venue round the corner called Jamboree. CLICK HERE to take a look at their website, look at the lovely, arty graphics they use:
Jamboree is so unexpected- it's an artists collective, hidden in a relatively quiet residential area where there's nothing but blocks of riverside apartments and a couple of pubs. The venue is part of Cable Studios- an assortment of buildings that are grouped around a cobbled courtyard, providing artists with cheap accommodation and studios.
I loved it. They have live music each night from all the world and the bands play on a tiny stage that looks like it could have been designed for a 19th Century cabaret club. It's a really small venue but it wasn't crowded at all- there are a few tables to sit at and everyone in there was really nice. When we first arrived a dreamy, folk band was playing.
The Australian guy we'd adopted undid his tie, shouting "This isn't me!"
Then he gestured round the room and said, "This is me."
I thought he might take all his clothes off but thankfully he didn't.
After the folk band, a French band came on and because I was really drunk I might have been shouting things out in French. I'm pretty sure I yelled allez-y which is the equivalent of shouting 'go there!' Luckily The Person I Was Having A Drink With doesn't speak French and thought I must be making perfect sense.
Talking of drinks... guess who else has been on a date?
My mum. Last night we were gossiping on the phone about dates and boys and I got a bit carried away and told her about The Person I Was Having A Drink With and accidentally let slip that I stayed at his house.
"Oh," my mum said, "Does he have a spare bedroom?"
No mum, no he does not.
I wish I hadn't told her anything now, because if she asks me if we've been on anymore dates and I say 'no', she'll think it's my fault for not going on dates with boys who have spare bedrooms.
My eyes are KILLING from looking at a computer screen all day, so I'm going to go now. I don't know when I'll next get chance to blog. What else did I want to say?
Oh, I went to Vibe Bar on Brick Lane on Saturday for Katie's birthday, a friend of TC and OJ's. The music was good but it was full of Sinisters. One of them tried to start a fight with me on the stairs and I did ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO ANTAGONISE HIM. HONESTLY.
Oh, how come you always know when I'm lying?
I didn't realise he was being serious, I thought he was pretending to be a bouncer for a joke but he was actually just a nutcase who knew the bouncers and took it upon himself to randomly tell people off on their behalf.
London is not Paris. Here scallies do not want to engage in a bit of harmless, faux-aggressive chitchat, they just want to stab you. I always knew being a dickhead would be the death of me and now I've moved to London, it is only a matter of time.
By the way, guess who lives near Brick Lane? B. And Holly is moving into a canal boat soon in North London. Everyone from Paris is in London, apart from Mez actually, because she's leaving this week to go back to Wales. And obviously Julia is still in Paris, but she's coming to visit England in a couple of weeks!
Speaking of Paris... I woke up crying again this morning after dreaming about Paris. It's weird because I don't miss it when I'm awake, but when I'm asleep I transport myself back there and this very strong, familiar feeling will suddenly sweep through the dream. When I wake up I can almost feel it still, but I can't quite put my finger on it.
Sorry that was a bit depressing.
Will this cheer you up?
*I always forget to mention Lauren's boyfriend Ben but he lives there too. Lauren told me last week that she was going to Manchester for a few days so I could have her bed, then she had to withdraw the offer when Ben reminded her that their bed wouldn't be free because he would be in it. Ah.