You know you live in London when...

- 50% of your salary goes to food and alcohol
- 40% goes to rent
- 10% on clothes
- 0% to savings

You go to 30th birthday parties what seems like every weekend but you have yet to go to a single wedding

Only spending $80 on a meal is a bargain

The sun comes out occasionally, but only followed directly after or right before a torrential rain-pour

Nobody speaks English

You are a successful professional still living in a flat share

Estate agents (rental property managers) were former criminals

Having a child at the age of 30 seems WAY too young

You fear the suburbs – it is a whole new world!

You spend at least 3 hours a day travelling on the tube – and another 1 hour a day stuck in one

You live in a $5 million dollar home that if located in the States, would be condemned

A small backyard comprised of rocks and cigarette butts (not mine) is a luxury- and a key selling point to our flat

You cannot order food without it being covered in oil and/or cream

Your social life is overwhelming and you have a list of ready to go excuses as to why you cannot attend this party/dinner/lunch/coffee/work drinks/festival….the list goes on – you need sleep!

A Dangerous Commute

I can’t breathe.

I try to fill my lungs with the stuffy, putrid air. It is hot. I can feel my shirt starting to stick to my body as I begin to faintly perspire.

I am surrounded by people dressed in black, most of whom are larger than me so that all I can see are shoulders, backs and a few grim faces of the unfortunate shorter few. The floor below me lurches violently; I lose my balance but do not fall. The bodies in black are pressed up against me so tightly they are propping me up.

Over the next ten minutes the floor continues to jolt to and fro. The bodies in black begin to slowly disperse and I widen my stance so as to prevent tipping over onto the person next to me.

I have one hand clasped tightly on the bar above me, the other holding my copy of The Economist – books are too heavy for this one hand-hold, and The Financial Times too big. Headphones in, music softly playing, I keep my head down in the text, trying to pretend I am elsewhere, anywhere but on the Tube on my way home from work.

Five stops to go and I see movement out of the corner of my eye. A woman sitting down is folding up a popular British tabloid newspaper – this indicates an approximate 80% chance she is getting off at the next stop; the other 20% of course being she is simply done with the paper.

Her movement was subtle, but I see another standing passenger looking in her direction – she must have also noticed! My shoulder is aching from my heavy laptop bag and I am dying for a seat. I quickly angle my body in front of the other standing passenger so as to block her attempt to go for the seat should it become available.

The train stops. I wait…success! The sitting woman with the folded newspaper is getting up from her seat! I lean out of her way “accidently” blocking the pathway to the seat from the other standing passengers. As soon as she is out I make a dash, plunk down and swing my laptop case with a thud to the floor. I sigh…another day..another commute.