Here I am, blogging from my new location. I've been blogging in my head again and jotting notes down on scraps of paper, it's time to type it up.
This is the first night I've sat downstairs- so far I've been out or in bed in the evenings. It's not really my space to inhabit, is it? I'm lodging in somebody else's house... I'm 'the lodger'. I feel like I'm in a film but for once I'm not the main character (I normally give myself a pretty major role in my own daydreams and delusions). I'm a bit part, seen in one or two scenes perhaps, or in every scene but only just in shot, a running joke with no lines.
I moved in last Friday, as in the Friday before the one we've just had. So not last Friday then, I suppose.
Natalie drove me with all my stuff. As she has a two-seater smart car, we had to do three trips. I have a lot more shit than I thought I had. As usual I didn't start packing properly until a few hours before I had to leave, I've managed to lose my trainers and my heated rollers (which I've NEVER used) in the move, but other than that everything went quite smoothly.
I didn't see Weird Flatmate, she kept messaging me to find out if I was still in the flat. Although the messages were friendly, I get the impression she was as keen on seeing me as I was keen on seeing her. I felt relieved when I locked the door for the last time and shoved the keys through the letterbox, but weird as well: I thought I was sorted and settled- but it was just a six month solution.
The lady I'm lodging with wasn't here that weekend, so it was just her teenage son at home. He said he'd leave a key for me under the doormat, but when I arrived there was just a funny-looking key on top of the mat. It looked a bicycle lock key.
I had to ring the doorbell a few times and call his phone before he answered the door looking like he was still asleep. Each time after that it was his friend who opened the door for me. The house was full of sleeping teenagers but this one boy was wandering around the house with his coat and rucksack on, rooting through the doors and staring out of the window. I wonder what they'd been up to?
After moving in, me and Natalie had a lovely day galavanting about London. We went to Borough Market and got bread, chorizo and Compte cheese to eat by the river (it was a lot windier and colder than we'd imagined) and then went to Brick Lane for afternoon drinking.
We looked round a Vintage Fair and I bought some old Levi's that I've been dreaming of for weeks... They're a bit like 'mom jeans',slightly high-waisted and baggy on the leg, worn turned up at the ankle. In my head these jeans made me look like a cross between Thelma & Louise, Marilyn Monroe, Madonna in the early days and Kelly Kapowski from Saved by the Bell.
In reality I'm a lot shorter and a lot fuller round the thighs than my stretchy Topshop 'jeans' would have me believe.
Oh my god. The mum and son are arguing. I feel awkward and also can't concentrate.
I think I've lost my knack for blogging, but I'll push on.
Moving Day ended with the best lamb chops in the world at Needo's in Whitechapel. I've been reluctant to go back there since I first went months and months ago with The Guy I Sometimes Went for Meals and Private Sleepovers With, because he told me he and his friends go about once a week... But me and Natalie were quite drunk and the lamb chops are sooo good and so I thought it was worth the risk... I could eat those lamb chops every day.
That night I got home very full of lamb and alcohol to an empty house. I was asleep by half ten, then in the early hours of the morning the teenager and his friends came home for an after-party. Judging by the vibrations I could feel coming through the floor, they like a bit of drum & bass. I always suspected growing up that London teenagers were miles cooler than me and now I've had my worst fears confirmed- they're still cooler than me.
But it makes me wonder, if you grow up in Central London and have after-parties in your massive house and listen to drum & bass, where else can you go? What's next for them on the agenda, apart from crack?
The other day the mum picked the butt of a joint up off the side and said, "They leave their bloody joints everywhere, for goodness sake."
I don't know, these bohemians...
The day after I moved in I stepped in a bit of sick and a couple of confused but very polite teenagers in their pants wandered into the kitchen to look for their phones and to get glasses of water.
The family are really lovely. The lady also has a daughter who is only two years younger than me and she was home from uni last week. I chatted to her and her friends for a bit and ate dinner with them, but then I felt really, really awkward and went upstairs before they started playing 'card games' and smoking weed. It was nice of her to ask me to join in and we'd had a nice chat over dinner, but sometimes you've got to quit while you're ahead.
So much more to blog about, don't know if I can carry on or not.
I think not, but I might be back later.
For now I'll leave you with a song that I've just rediscovered. The whole time I lived in Paris I would hear it on nights out and ask everyone what it was called and never remember. I found it by accident this weekend and it's the best feeling ever.
I don't know why, but this song makes me feel like a sleazy lounge lizard, creeping around the dance floor winking at people. I love it!
It makes me miss Paris and The Rex. In Paris I felt like I had license to do whatever the hell I wanted, because I was more anonymous. I could dance by myself for hours, then meet up with everyone a bit later.
"What have you been up to?"
"Just sliding around the edge of the dance floor, being sleazy and winking at people. You?"
"Pretty much the same mate."