367 is the number of days I have lived in London. 367 days ago my heart broke as I said goodbye to my life in Zurich and began my new one in London… alone.
364 days ago was my 26th birthday, spent with complete strangers wandering through the confusing winding streets of West London, A-Z London map in hand checking out potential flats and flat-mates. 364 days ago my night was split being interviewed and me interviewing a late 20-something Aussie from Melbourne, a 30-something English guy, and a large household of also very large Aussie/Canadian girls. That was 364 days ago.
62 minutes until my 27th birthday. Now, 61 minutes. I sit on my bed in my little room containing everything I own. My friends and family have houses, apartments, cars, nice furniture…I have a closet, or actually closets jammed with shoes, clothes, handbags…and my memories. Memories of my experiences, travels, bad and good times, very random times..and memories of all the people who have both entered and departed my life, relationships made which had an impact on me without them ever knowing.
54 minutes. So, what has changed? Well, I have become much poorer, have a lovely ivory complexion, rounder curves, spell color “colour” and organize “organise”, picked up a slight British accent that only Americans notice, increased my alcohol tolerance, made new friends while missing my old ones, got caught up in the madness that is the global financial crisis, ditched the jeans in favour of dresses and tights, developed a love for English pubs, mastered the ability to note by a person’s body language on the tube when their next stop is to position myself for the steal, realised stuffing your body with vitamins and supplements won’t stop me from catching the viruses that go around in London nor offset the amounts of alcohol I consume, and added the words “rubbish” and “lovely” into my vocabulary.
42 minutes. I still miss my family, my friends, my sunshine. I am still alone. I still don’t know which path to take or direction to go in, but I know turning around is not it. I still love my running, which has turned into yoga after a long-term sports injury. I still have my rabbit-like eating habits, still love my trance, and still am terrible at responding to phone calls and emails (which doesn’t mean I am not thinking of you!)
36 minutes. I have no doubt that one year from now on, I will most likely still be all of those things, but I wonder what changes will come. We will see.
Friday, 24 October 2008
Sunday, 19 October 2008
English Facts
1) “Living in London is a definite risk factor. People work harder and play harder than in the rest of the country. Londoners also drink most days of the week…”- Time Out “Perchance to dream” April 10-16th
2) You are in a strained conversation, full of awkward silences and unsure as to how to proceed. In England, you have two options;
* Offer a cup of tea
-Of course, this requires that your own kitchen is in close proximity..bonus points it gives you the chance to excuse yourself from the room for a moment entirely.
-Unfortunately, this option is not always available. Therefore, I would recommend the second option
*Comment on the weather
3) I have come to the sudden revelation that the English are actually a lot like the Swiss, they just eat and drink more.
2) You are in a strained conversation, full of awkward silences and unsure as to how to proceed. In England, you have two options;
* Offer a cup of tea
-Of course, this requires that your own kitchen is in close proximity..bonus points it gives you the chance to excuse yourself from the room for a moment entirely.
-Unfortunately, this option is not always available. Therefore, I would recommend the second option
*Comment on the weather
3) I have come to the sudden revelation that the English are actually a lot like the Swiss, they just eat and drink more.
Five
“Five” Our arms are stretched out, our fists form a circle hovering slightly above the wooden table. My fist comes down on that of my colleague’s sitting to my left.
“Ten” I hit the fist of my colleague two spots down.
“Fifteen” I continue hitting each of my colleagues’ outstretched fists in a counterclockwise fashion.
“Twenty” Right before I hit each fist, I continue my count of a multiple of five
“Twenty-five” Some of us are seated at the table, the less fortunate who either arrived late or whose chairs were immediately stolen after a visit to the toilets were standing over the table, crouched low in order to ensure their fist joined our circle of fists. As the count climbs, our anticipation rises
"Thirty" I shout even louder in order to be heard over the din of the other drunken patrons in our local pub next to the office
“Thirty-five” It is 8:00pm, we have been drinking since 5:30pm.
“Forty” The waitress casually slides by the table, slyly removing the empty plate which at one point was full of nachos before being ravenously devoured within moments of being set on the table
“Forty-five”
“What game are you playing?” A colleague who had been stuck working in the office late on the Friday night and so had only just arrived asks. I do not look up. I am in full concentration.
“Fifty” I count myself. It is the moment of truce. The game is about to begin. I pause….
“Twenty!!!!!!” I scream and simultaneously release my fist and stretch out my hand so that all five figures are extended. Four of my colleagues do the same. Including mine, I see twenty-five outstretched fingers in our circle. “Shit” I mutter to myself. I am still in the game. It is now the person to my left’s chance.
“Fifteen” He shouts. At the exact same time, I clench my fist, unfortunately so does my colleague across the table. There are now only fifteen outstretched fingers. My colleague to the left guessed right, he is out and safe from pounding a beer later on.
We continue around the circle, shouting multiples of five, flexing and clenching our fists to reveal either null or five figures. As players get the number right, the number of hands outstretched in the circle reduces. Suddenly the only outstretched hands are those of mine and my colleague’s across the table. The pressure is on. Everyone is watching and shouting words of encouragement. I take a deep breath and calmly stare into my colleague’s eyes trying to guess whether he will keep his fist clenched or flex it out. Mine is open; his clenched. As I stare, a hush falls over the table..everyone is wondering who will outwit the other.
I wait…and wait…and wait….”FIVE!” I suddenly scream and clench my fist, he opens. I win. The table erupts in cheers. “Drink!” “Drink!” “Drink!” the table chants at my defeated and humiliated colleague across the table
But as he picks up his pint to accept his punishment, we all gasp. The glass is empty.
“Bailout!” We scream, referring to the government bailouts of the banks, “He needs capital!”
And with a cry, everyone happily offers up some of their beer, pouring it into the empty glass until it is now full of a delectable mixture of lager, English ale, guiness, vodka, and to top it off, a salt and vinegar crisp. My unlucky colleague picks up the pint and with a show of pride downs the concoction in seconds, pounding the glass back onto the table. The table cheers.
Meanwhile, another colleague disappears to the bar to order the next round of drinks in order to decrease the necessity of the next bailout.
“Five” The colleague I beat across the table now must start the next game.
The game continues..sambuca shots are taken…we play on…crisps are eaten..we play on….the English banter becomes more vicious..we play on
Suddenly, it is 11pm. It is closing time. We stumble down the stairs and into the cool crisp autumn air night. We all dart off in different directions and head home or to whatever destination we have chosen to continue the night.
I walk to the tube and settle into the seat with a sigh as I look forward to the weekend ahead.
“Ten” I hit the fist of my colleague two spots down.
“Fifteen” I continue hitting each of my colleagues’ outstretched fists in a counterclockwise fashion.
“Twenty” Right before I hit each fist, I continue my count of a multiple of five
“Twenty-five” Some of us are seated at the table, the less fortunate who either arrived late or whose chairs were immediately stolen after a visit to the toilets were standing over the table, crouched low in order to ensure their fist joined our circle of fists. As the count climbs, our anticipation rises
"Thirty" I shout even louder in order to be heard over the din of the other drunken patrons in our local pub next to the office
“Thirty-five” It is 8:00pm, we have been drinking since 5:30pm.
“Forty” The waitress casually slides by the table, slyly removing the empty plate which at one point was full of nachos before being ravenously devoured within moments of being set on the table
“Forty-five”
“What game are you playing?” A colleague who had been stuck working in the office late on the Friday night and so had only just arrived asks. I do not look up. I am in full concentration.
“Fifty” I count myself. It is the moment of truce. The game is about to begin. I pause….
“Twenty!!!!!!” I scream and simultaneously release my fist and stretch out my hand so that all five figures are extended. Four of my colleagues do the same. Including mine, I see twenty-five outstretched fingers in our circle. “Shit” I mutter to myself. I am still in the game. It is now the person to my left’s chance.
“Fifteen” He shouts. At the exact same time, I clench my fist, unfortunately so does my colleague across the table. There are now only fifteen outstretched fingers. My colleague to the left guessed right, he is out and safe from pounding a beer later on.
We continue around the circle, shouting multiples of five, flexing and clenching our fists to reveal either null or five figures. As players get the number right, the number of hands outstretched in the circle reduces. Suddenly the only outstretched hands are those of mine and my colleague’s across the table. The pressure is on. Everyone is watching and shouting words of encouragement. I take a deep breath and calmly stare into my colleague’s eyes trying to guess whether he will keep his fist clenched or flex it out. Mine is open; his clenched. As I stare, a hush falls over the table..everyone is wondering who will outwit the other.
I wait…and wait…and wait….”FIVE!” I suddenly scream and clench my fist, he opens. I win. The table erupts in cheers. “Drink!” “Drink!” “Drink!” the table chants at my defeated and humiliated colleague across the table
But as he picks up his pint to accept his punishment, we all gasp. The glass is empty.
“Bailout!” We scream, referring to the government bailouts of the banks, “He needs capital!”
And with a cry, everyone happily offers up some of their beer, pouring it into the empty glass until it is now full of a delectable mixture of lager, English ale, guiness, vodka, and to top it off, a salt and vinegar crisp. My unlucky colleague picks up the pint and with a show of pride downs the concoction in seconds, pounding the glass back onto the table. The table cheers.
Meanwhile, another colleague disappears to the bar to order the next round of drinks in order to decrease the necessity of the next bailout.
“Five” The colleague I beat across the table now must start the next game.
The game continues..sambuca shots are taken…we play on…crisps are eaten..we play on….the English banter becomes more vicious..we play on
Suddenly, it is 11pm. It is closing time. We stumble down the stairs and into the cool crisp autumn air night. We all dart off in different directions and head home or to whatever destination we have chosen to continue the night.
I walk to the tube and settle into the seat with a sigh as I look forward to the weekend ahead.
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