Thursday, 26 June 2014

Back to Blogging

I've been away for such a long time, I don't know how to begin catching up.

Hmm... How to get back into a blog?

I feel bewildered by the time-consuming task that lies ahead of me: writing up every thought I've had in the last twenty days (that's almost three weeks- so unbelievably sluttish* of me).

Like most daunting tasks, it's best to break up this blogging in to small, manageable chunks, so for now I'll go back to where I left off, even though that weekend in our Swanky Kensington Hotel was so, so long ago...

By the way. Look what Google did to my photographs without me even asking:


Apparently it's called an Auto Awesome photo. (It took two of my photos from my last post and stuck them together to create one photo of the same view, if you can't work it out.)

What's not so awesome though, is that my blog isn't connected to my Google + anymore, so how the hell did it get those two photos from my last post?

Anyway. When my mum was here for the weekend we went to Portobello Road Market. I went there years ago with a friend from uni, but I've not been since I moved to London. It feels like something out of a film (well, one film in particular).

It's the side of London I used to daydream about, but weirdly haven't thought about once since I moved here. It's not like Paris where the city of your imaginings swells around you soon as you step off the Eurostar, billowing around you every day and every night; in London reality just sits there like a puddle, or a patch of grey sky... even if you're drunk and star-spangled, London seems so sober.

Portobello Road Market feels a bit more cinematic, at least. I bought an old Levis denim jacket- the brainwashing effects of all that denim research I had to do for work still haven't worn off- and now I constantly ask myself what jacket I wore in the days before I owned a denim jacket.

(It's no replacement for my kimono, but- gee wizz- is my denim badboy**versatile.)

Later on we drank a huge amount of wine with my cousin Sophie and my mum's cousin- I know, it's like a riddle... If there are four cousins who are each related to the other three people in the group, but each of them is only the cousin of one person in the group and no two people in the group are cousins with the same cousin... then what the fuck is going on?

We started out at/in/on (I don't know which... we were just there, you know what I mean) the South Bank, then we went to a little pub at the back of Waterloo and all of a sudden a funny look came over my mum and I knew she was suddenly completely and ridiculously drunk.

It was so sudden- one minute we were having a very loud, heated debate about Israel and Palestine (which mainly involved me yelling NOT TO THE DETRIMENT OF OTHERS THOUGH, MUM! after the word 'detriment' came to me in a flash of inspiration) and the next minute I had to take her home, supporting her as we walked and standing behind her on the escalator so she didn't topple backwards.

We said goodbye to my cousin and her cousin, then my mum said she needed a wee. You have to pay 30p to use the loos in Waterloo (I feel like I should attempt a loo pun, but I'm tired and anyway, I should know better) and we had 60p. Mum wasted her 30p by being incapable of getting through the barriers effectively, so I helped her through with our last 30p and waited for her outside.

I waited and waited.

And waited.

I gave a confused Texan lady 10p I found in my pocket so she could get through...

And then I waited.

Eventually I climbed over the barriers and marched into the toilets, ready to kick down some doors in case mum had passed out or choked on her own sick. She was just stood by the sinks, smiling into the distance and clutching her handbag at chest-height like a little girl pretending to be a Grown Up Lady in a play.

Somehow I manged to get us both back to the hotel and ordered room service, because I've never had it and may never have it again! The next day we had breakfast in our rooms, perched on the ends of our bed like that scene in Sex and the City where that guy leaves Carrie some money after they have sex.

Right. That's pretty much the end of my post now, I'm tired but I have a lot more to blog about and to prove it I will write down some notes for myself here, so I don't forget:

- Terry Richardson
- American Apparel owner being sacked
- Paris
- Spain
- Titus Adronicus
- Online dating
- My new house

And inevitably:

- Eyebrows
- Cats
- Myself

*as in the old fashioned use of the word, like "She knew all the latest jazz tunes and looked swell in a beaded flapper dress, but she was a sluttish housekeeper". I don't mean I've been too busy slagging about to blog.

**Can't decide if My Denim Badboy is the title of a millionaire-making raunchy novel series, or the headline of a Take A Break story.

2 comments:

  1. Hey LBM, when you say London seems so sober, you've managed to identify the thing that bothers me about the city that I couldn't put my finger on.

    I commented on your post 6 months ago or something, because I was in the same situation as you: moving from France to London. I'm glad to see things are picking up for you! As for me, London doesn't quite have that magic for me that I was hoping to find, so I'm moving to Brighton next month. It's 50 minutes from London so will still be able to pop in and out.

    Keep posting, I love reading your blog!

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    1. I've still never been to Brighton but I rrrreally want to go everyone says it's fun. Good luck in Brighton, I'm glad you could relate to my post although I'm feeling better about it now that I've moved closer to the centre. Thanks for commenting!

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