One of those days...

I manage to get myself into a lot of unusual situations. Today, most of them happened at work…

For example, this afternoon I was busy juggling many different tasks when my colleague ran over to me declaring “Roland is dead!”

I stopped in my tracks, trying to remember if I’d ever met a Roland and fathom how serious the situation was. It turns out that Roland was the rat who had been trapped in our bins since the previous day. Pest control had worked their magic and he was now in ratty heaven.

I was not going to mourn Roland. He had given me the fright of my life when I was taking out the rubbish the day before and he looked disgusting. He wasn't like the one in the Disney film, let's put it that way. 

Another strange occurrence today involved the handyman that came in to fix our bathroom door. He was there for less than an hour during which I probably said about five sentences to him.

When demonstrating that he had fixed the door he suggested that I test it. This involved testing the lock. Locking myself and said handyman in the toilet, standing there for a few seconds and consequently agreeing that, yes, the door was indeed working, was possibly the most awkward situation of the day. Especially because one of the company directors was stood the other side of the door wondering what the hell was going on.

Having signed all the paperwork I thought I was done with that situation. Ten minutes later I get a mysterious phone call…

“Hi, is that Laura?”

“Yes, how can I help?”

“This might sound strange Laura but are you single?”

Now, being slightly confused at this question, I thought this unknown caller was carrying out some kind of survey where you replied either “married” or “single”. Boy did I regret my following answer.

“Yes, I am.”

“Oh, good! Do you want to go for a drink sometime? It’s A by the way, I was in fixing the door a minute ago.”

Oh, God.

With the office being deadly quiet (possibly in mourning for Roland still) I was unsure of how to deal with this situation without everyone laughing at me. Previous to this phone call, my boss had stated that we would use handyman’s company again, so I was going to have to let him down gently in case he turned up again.

I had no choice but to pretend it was a sales call.

“I’m very sorry but we aren’t interested at this moment in time.”

“Oh…oh…erm…”

At this point I was feeling a bit sorry for him. I panicked…

“If I give you my email address you can send me over some details.”

“Ok yes! Thanks!”

“I will email you should we be interested.”

I haven’t emailed.

And now I need to find a boyfriend before the office needs more repairs so that I can claim I’m not single should the issue arise again.

Learning to be a (posh) Londoner

As a girl who was born and raised in a part of England that pushes the boundaries of normal social behaviour, the serene residential streets of North West London probably wasn't the first place people would suggest I move to. But it happened.

Luckily, Camden is just round the corner. There I can act like a total loon before heading back to civilisation.

Upon arrival in my new home I went for a wander to explore my surroundings. As I strolled down the road I overheard a young boy complaining about something his friend had just done,

“That is totally unethical.”

In my parts kids say “that’s out of order” or you’re simply told to f*** off. It was at this point I realised I probably had to adjust certain elements of my behaviour in order to fit in.

For example…

Celebrity sightings are the norm in this area. In fact it is the norm on my street. I have to take a few deep breaths before I go out the front door so that I don’t end up squealing in the faces of Daniel Craig or Russell Brand. I suppress the urge to get too excited and grin at them like an over-caffeinated Cheshire cat. I remind myself that I need to act like the rest of my neighbours and act completely nonchalant (i.e. a simple nod will suffice rather than a massive bear hug).

You definitely don’t go binge drinking. Not that I have done (yet), but if you have so much to drink that you end up singing S Club 7 all the way home and throwing up on someone’s doorstep it is guaranteed that no one will be laughing the next morning.

You need dogs or at least access to some canine pals. Walking my landlady’s dogs has escalated me into a whole new social realm. People actually stop you to recommend documentaries about “dog spirituality”. Back where I’m from that would probably earn you a punch in the face or a bite on the arse from a dog who is not really in touch with his spiritual side.

Everyone is a fitness fanatic. I often feel good about myself for going for a walk every day. But then I pass by dozens of cyclists, enough joggers to initiate some kind of running army and a questionable Latino offering Salsa lessons on a canal boat. This often causes some frantic research into local gyms…in the comfort of the local bakery, of course.

You pronounce a lot more letters of the alphabet. Enunciation is key if you want to get by. Also, excessive swearing is a no-no unless you’re an aging rock star.

There are no local fast food joints. The most you can hope for are vegan cupcakes or a pot of hummus.

However, as much as I joke, I can’t help but love every quirky minute I spend here. You never know, maybe this corner of London could teach this Medway girl a thing or two…

The story of some South London love-birds

Next month will be my grandparents Golden Wedding Anniversary. 50 years ago in Peckham, the town they grew up in, a slightly shy 15-year-old Sylvie finally agreed to meet a somewhat rebellious, cigarette-smoking 18-year old Jim (complete with ginger, Teddy Boy hair).  

“I thought he looked alright,” shrugs my Nan whenever she tells me the story, “but I wasn’t too sure.”

Maybe not love at first sight then. How did the first date go?

“Well, one of the first things he mentioned was that he hated it when girls bit their nails. That made me worry because that was my worst habit then.”

So, how did you get past that?

“Well, it was dark in the cinema so he couldn’t notice then. The rest of the time I just kept my gloves on.”

Good thinking, Nan.

The next day Sylvie bought nail paint that stops you from biting them and to this date she has had the most perfectly shaped nails of anyone I know.

What about you then, Grandad?

“Well, I dated a lot of women before your Nan but she had all their best qualities in one.”

Right.

A few years on, they were engaged. And one snowy day in March 1964 Sylvie and Jim enjoyed a small and simple ceremony followed by a quick drink and dance above a local pub. Then they got the bus home to their new flat in Catford.

So, there was my Nan, meeting the love of her life at 15 and married to him at 19. And here I am at 23 with no great success on the relationship front. Perhaps I could learn a thing or two about relationships off of my grandparents? These are the main lessons that I could distinguish…

Never lose the teenagers in you

My Nan and Grandad met when they were barely adults and they still hold hands and can always be found jiving together at parties. Admittedly, it is a little embarrassing when your Grandad announces, “Your Nan’s had passion fruit tonight, now I don’t stand a chance in bed” but it’s good to know their relationship is still youthful.

Revenge is all gravy

My Nan can be quite reserved and is one of the most caring people I know. So it shocked me to learn that when my Grandad jokingly declared at a dinner party that my Nan's coffee “tasted like gravy”, demure little Sylvie actually went and made him a mug of Bisto (milk and sugar included). I’m sure there are many morals to this story but I am laughing too hard to list them.

If you run out of things to say, just fall asleep

When watching a film with my grandparents a while ago, I started chatting away only to get replies in the form of snores. Apparently if your partner begins to bore you, subtlety is not of high importance.

Take a hike

Whenever my grandparents invite me on a “little walk” I am never quite prepared for the trek across Kent that follows. My Grandad even takes a pedometer just to demonstrate exactly why I can’t feel my feet when we finally return home. However, they’ve been walking and exploring many miles together for 50 years so it must have done some good.

In all honesty, it’s difficult to put your finger on exactly why a laddish Teddy Boy and a pretty but sensible young girl hit it off so well. At a young age they met and just clicked and 50 years down the line they’re still going strong and my family and I are lucky enough to share a part of their story.

Happy Golden Anniversary Sylvie and Jim ♥

Mojo the Play: Review

Recently, I went to see Jez Butterworth's Mojo at the Harold Pinter Theatre near Leicester Square. 

Before I had even bought the tickets (*cough* persuaded my dear mother to buy tickets *cough*) I knew that I was going to like this play a lot.

To be honest, even when I sat in my seat I didn't really know what the production was going to be about about. But just look at that cast! So many major names that made stars swim in front of my eyes. The fact that my favourite actor was one of those names (Ben Whishaw - don't tell me you haven't heard of him) was also a relatively high factor in my wish to see Mojo.

As I sat in the stalls four rows from the front (Imelda Staunton and Jim Carter were about five rows behind us - just saying) I could barely contain my excitement.

Then the curtain lifted and the onslaught of bad language, murder, drugs and cheesy Rock'n'Roll moves began. It was divine.

The play is set in a seedy club in Soho in 1958. The big boss (and father of one of the employees) has died in very suspicious circumstances (let's just say he ended up in two dustbins). The play follows five main characters who all work at the club and how they cope (or don't cope as the case may be) with the situation they find themselves in. As the mystery unfolds, we find out more and more about each uniquely outrageous character. 

None of the star-studded cast disappointed. Even Ron Weasley (I'm sorry, Rupert Grint) impressed in his theatre debut. Together with Daniel Mays (Mr Biggs to ITV viewers) Grint had the audience in stitches with a constant reel of hilarious dialogue.

Ben Whishaw (did I mention I love this guy?) certainly did not disappoint either. Playing the creepy and complex Baby, it was difficult to know whether you wanted to laugh or cry at his performance but, either way, you could not take your eyes off of him. He stole scenes in which other actors were displaying high levels of talent merely by sitting and staring. And who knew that the man can sing?

Add into the mixture golden performances from Brendan Coyle (Mr Bates off Downton Abbey), Colin Morgan (Merlin) and Tom Rhys Harries (no idea either but one to watch). All six actors lit up the stage and pulled you into their crazed world.

The mesmerising acting, witty script and accurate depiction of 1950's Soho made up for the large amount of passive smoking that you have to endure for over two hours.

If you can still get tickets I recommend you buy them RIGHT THIS MOMENT. Don't even put some thought into it. I've seen it and you will like it. Unless your ears are particularly sensitive to the C-word or the F-word. In which case you should probably go to a musical.

http://www.mojotheplay.com/
@MojothePlay

My Favourite Place in the World

I have been to a lot of places.

New York. Japan. Austria. Poland. Rome. France. Budapest. Prague. Croatia. Florida. Grenoble. Luxembourg.

And I have many more places left on my list to travel to.

But let me tell you about my favourite place in the world. It’s a bit closer to home than you might think and perhaps not quite as exotic.

Killarney National Park, Ireland.

Yes, I know, it rains. A lot. But, for me, that has never changed the beauty of the Irish countryside. Whenever I have been in Killarney and it has been raining, I didn't care one bit.

When it’s raining and you’re forced to shelter in a pub with an Irishman that’s so inebriated that he stares at you and shouts “OBAMA” in your face for a while – that’s a different story.

But back to the countryside.

Killarney National Park has been stuck in my mind for a long time. From the family stories of previous generations who lived in County Kerry to the first time I stopped at Ladies’ View with my family at the age of twelve – I guess it’s always been in my life somehow.

My most recent trip to Killarney at the age of twenty, I was just coming out of a particularly rough time. That week in Ireland I spent with my family, I remember it was the first time I felt like me again. The struggles of the past year magically melted away and I bounced through valleys, up hills and mountains and around lakes (admittedly falling off a rock and into a lake along the way – but, hey, at least I drenched AND joyful). Even the fact that my grumpy teenage sister didn't want to be there one bit made it all the more entertaining.

Sitting at the highest point of Ladies’ View (a roadside spot that apparently Queen Victoria’s Ladies-in-Waiting loved so much back in 1861 that the view had to be named) I always feel calm and like I never want to leave. Looking down the deep valleys, I always have to restrain myself from running into the view knowing that I will only tumble headfirst down the hill and ruin the moment.

And, in addition to the amazing views and tranquility, the people are fantastic (plastered old Irishman aside – or maybe included. I’m unsure.) The people that you run into whilst exploring the wonders of Killarney National Park, with their South-western Irish drawl and their friendly greetings (yes, “top o’ the mornin’ to ya” is among those), makes the experience all the more fun.

I know that other Irish countryside enthusiasts will argue endlessly with me about the most beautiful views in the Emerald country. But, in my eyes, Killarney National Park has them.

How can you not love those views? In sunshine, drizzle or downright Irish downpour Killarney is the place I love. I’ll be back there soon enough. 

How not to commute

Thanks to a wonderful new job in the city I am now experiencing the joys of the train commute. Morning and evening I join thousands of people on England's glorious railways. And I may have only been doing this for a few weeks, but I have already learnt a lot about the Great British Commute. Through silent observation, I have compiled a list of the people who are not well-liked on the journeys to and from work. 

1. The Snuggler

In case you had not noticed, personal space is quite important to the British commuter. Even on a packed out train. Large amounts of stretching or falling asleep on your neighbour's shoulder may result in a lot of tutting and your neighbour trying to climb out of the window of a moving train. Please stick to the vicinity of your own seat. 

2. The Snorer

Just don't do it, okay. Commuting is bad enough without having to deal with your nasal problems. 

3. The Conversationalist

Look around you. Do you see anyone else trying to strike up a conversation? The only reason that the British commute does not end with severe bouts of mutilation is purely because everyone zones out and pretends that no one else exists. 

4. The Broadsheet Reader

If the person sat beside you had wanted to read a newspaper they would have bought their own rather than sharing your copy of The Telegraph. A normal-sized publication would suffice. 

5. The One-off Traveller

It's 7am. Please show less enthusiasm. 

6. The Technological Hazard

So you have an ipod, two phones and an array of other fancy devices? Wonderful. You do know that they all have silent modes? The noise of your Candy Crush saga is interrupting my nap. 

7. The Sickly Patient

I spent a whole week dishing out disgusted looks to people who were coughing, sneezing and sniffling all around the carriage. Unfortunately, the next week I was the one on the receiving end of such looks. Coughing fits are apparently not tolerated on trains. Next time I will try to show more sympathy. 

8. Children

Screaming, whining, abundant energy and an unnatural devotion to Peppa Pig. Just no. 

9. The Refreshment Man

Ideally, Mr Refreshments, I would like to be in the warmth of my own home. But if all you can offer my from your trolley of not-so-delightful delights is lukewarm tea and a packet of Quavers then I think I'll pass. Unless you have a bottle of gin hiding in there somewhere. 

10. The Seat Thief

This is the most dangerous person to be. If you see that someone has spotted a vacant seat and is headed towards it DO NOT try to get to it before them. If you plant your bum in their seat you will more than likely end up unconscious. 

There you have it. That is pretty much what my mornings and evenings now consist of. Just make sure that you don't fall into any of the above categories and you should survive any commute. 

Thoughts on gardening

Since moving back home from university and finding myself drastically unemployed, I have unexpectedly found myself filling my days with all kinds of domestic duties. The newest (and most surprising) chore that I dabbled in is gardening.

Okay I will admit that I did stand in my garden, trowel in hand, completely clueless as to what I should be doing for a good few minutes before my mother pointed out that digging was probably a good start. A while later, looking like I'd had a fight with a mud bath and lost, twenty sunflower seeds had been sown and watered (considering we don't have the biggest garden in the world, I have a horrible feeling that my parents are going to wake up one morning to a sea of yellow).

So, what did I make of this green-fingered malarky? Let's see...

I guess it was kind of satisfying. But relaxing? I think not. By the time I'd completed my Garden Force endeavour I was a sweaty mess and had soil under my fingernails and in my hair. I think if I'm going to use any domestic skills to impress a man I should probably stick to the kitchen.

Don't get me wrong, I am incredibly proud that I managed to weed, dig and plant my way through the garden. And who knew I was such a genius with a watering can? But then you have to WAIT. I only planted the minuscule seeds yesterday and I'm already staring into flower beds wondering why I can't see anything yet. I am not an impatient person. I just want to see flowers NOW.

A friend of mine suggested that I should talk to my little planted projects. He was more than likely joking (or he knows that I'm crazy enough to try) but I have heard that this is a thing in the crazy world of gardening. I'm curious to know what you are actually meant to discuss with a pile of dirt. Do you comment on the glorious summer weather, offer words of encouragement or read out excerpts of Cosmopolitan? As a budding horticulturalist, I will gratefully receive any advice on the topic.

However, after endless weeks of waiting I am guessing (and hoping) that the end result will an array of cheerful looking flowers having been watered, nurtured and invited into stimulating conversations. Then I am sure that it will all have been worth it. Either that or I will have moved onto bigger and better things. Like tree surgery.