Morning Mass

I worship at your 7am mass
We are missionaries, 
Whispering prayers to one another’s backs
Feeling the morning’s light 
Caress us in its urgency

Flutter (A Short Story, Not At All Autobiographical)

The days were long in June, and the evenings barely blushed and fluttered their eyelids, with a sunset of a little over two hours. He felt that day had lasted forever, as he waited for her to arrive. He idled. The long glass corridors made him uneasy: the ringing out of his heels on the polished wooden floors troubled him somehow, as if he were pacing a hospital corridor. Here he was, in the site chosen to mark the occasion of their long overdue meeting.  

The idea had come to her in a Williamsburg bookshop. She had picked up a series of travel essays about Iceland, and she’d fallen in love with the photos; her glacial eyes gleaming at finding such serene blues on the book jacket. They had picked the Harpa concert hall as their meeting point. “We can pick up our own symphony where we left off,” she had said.

Their lives had been abruptly separated when she had accepted a new job in a New York publishing house.  He had remained in London, unwilling to give up the work he loved as an editor, but also the townhouse, the dog, and his usual weekend stroll to collect the paper, followed with precise regularity by a flat white and some Ottolenghi sourdough toast. It wasn’t that he was stuck in his ways. Just comfortable. It had been four months since their last physical meeting, and an intercontinental ache had set in. He despised the digital. He couldn’t get used to their instant messaging – it just seemed so banal, the information they would exchange: the photos of their lunches, their desks, their walks to work. In the early days, he thought, they might have met at the museum of penises instead. They would have snickered in complicit unison, as they had on their first trip to Amsterdam. The sex museum had hardly been highbrow, but they had wandered about in a dazed glow, giggling as they took in exhibits of Monroe and Mata Hari. That first year had seemed like one long Sunday morning spent entangled in his high threadcount sheets. Now? They whatsapped their salads to one another.

He sighed, his heartbeat quickening. He missed her nape, her scent, her often-fuzzy legs. He fought his impending erection, scandalous in the airy confines of a concert hall with endless windows. He strode, then slowed, then sat, then stood and dialled. A robotic voice asked for his message, but he found he had none.The sun was dipping, lazily, like a cat stretching. There was no sign of her. He tried her phone again, fruitlessly. An icy thought gripped him: panic that her plane hadn’t arrived. As he arrived at the next possible conclusion, he felt nauseous. 

She hadn’t boarded in the first place. 

Light danced on the glass panels, honeycomb glittering in the soft evening sunshine. Final flurries of activity at the concert hall doors were taking place. Attendants collected wayward tickets, wives snapped their handbags shut and husbands downed the last of their drinks. He put his dinner jacket over his shoulder, and hurried down the glossy hallway, towards the briefest of dusks.

Violets, Books and Old Friends

A new way of friends keeping in touch, meaningfully and off facebook: http://fiveviolets.tumblr.com/

This is a lovely idea.

It’s going to be a novel way to start a conversation, keep it going, hear news and updates, and through a friend’s eyes, see a film, read a new book, or try out a recipe, and connect in a different way – a more meaningful way - than email or facebook. It means we can see the world through one another’s eyes every now and again. We can dip in or out; reading about friends’ lives in London, or on the road, wherever they happen to be. I am glad that we thought of it together, in an East London café on a sunny Sunday in early April of 2013.  I’m especially glad for the chance to stay connected in a new way, because soon the luxury of hopping on the tube and meeting up with friends for coffee and cake will be absent from my life.

That’s because this June, in my 31st year, I’m finally taking the leap of faith that I have wanted to since I was 17, and moving to Barcelona with my partner, E – a city I fell in love with even before we met; strangely enough, a city that my girlfriends took me to when I was getting over the breakup of the relationship that ended before E and I got together.

He has always loved Spain, and starting learning Spanish long before I did. On subsequent visits together, we did what everyone does in a city like Barcelona - we immediately imagined ourselves in a top-floor flat in the Barrio Gotico, looking out over the city’s pink rooftops, the sea air ruffling our hair. We could see ourselves eating tapas, suntanned and relaxed, shopping in the Mercat Santa Caterina, feeling plump tomatoes and sampling juicy olives. We stayed with some friends of friends who were sub-letting studio apartments to tourists using airbnb, a site we had no prior experience with, but have since grown to love and become passionate advocates of. We asked them how they enjoyed living there, and how their business was going. They told us that it had been the best decision of their lives. They had 95% occupancy in their 3 apartments year-round. They were doing well. And they said they thought anyone could do the same.

And like that, over a couple of bottles of Estrella Damm in the sunshine in August, it was decided. We were going to give it a go. Work-wise, we had to try to sort out other sources of income, because we know we’re not cut out to run a small empire of sublet apartments (it’s highly illegal, by the way). But then we thought: fuck it. Why not have at least a room that guests can stay in? Barcelona is a city that captivates all who visit her. It should be a good way to cover our costs and meet an assortment of interesting visitors. We’ve decided to try it out now because it feels like the right time for adventure, before we are tied to a city with a mortgage, or kids, or both. Right now, we can still choose.

The concept is to try out a few new things; namely, being self-employed, growing a new business, adapting to a different city and learning how to exist in a place other than London, and most crucially, moving towards some semblance of fluency in another language. It’s either going to be the best thing we ever do, or the most stupid. It means giving up full-time jobs, despite my mother’s worries and continual questions about how we’ll survive, given the current state of the Spanish economy. It means packing up our belongings, items that we have accumulated over the past four years; saved up for, even, and putting some up for sale, putting some in parents’ lofts, and throwing many away. It means we’ve been saving up and trying to live frugally, which in London is night-on impossible, but we’ve certainly been making a concerted effort to make packed lunches everyday, and deny ourselves the usual fripperies – coffees, magazines, takeaways; that expensive showergel has been used up; the Lovefilm subscription cancelled.

And it’s been good. It feels like we’re streamlining, picking away layers of needless expenditure, making things count more, last more, last longer. I’m actually enjoying eating up old tins of things in our food cupboard. Even if it does look like only quinoa, lentils, and risotto will be on the menu for the final few weeks. Actually – and this is a dark secret - I’ve always had a hankering to try to get my possessions down to a suitcase and a potted plant, à la Jean Reno in Léon. This is sadly impossible in reality as I struggle daily with a bona-fide addiction to buying shoes, and have a pathological aversion to throwing away old magazines and newspapers from momentous events - I still have a Newsweek from Obama’s first election victory. 

It’s the same with books.

As we packed up our possessions last week, I realised that between us we have a shitload of them. We must have had at least 300 or 400 of the little buggers in our small flat.  It’s been a busy few months and I’ve been reading less than I ought to, so in the last few weeks I’ve been playing catch-up, reading things that have been on the ‘to read’ shelf for years and I have been meaning to get around to opening. This is a crucial activity, as I need to know whether they will come with me on the journey.

Books that I love are like old friends to me and can never be thrown away. They sit on shelves gathering dust, occasionally opened to flirt with a favourite chapter, or passage, sometimes re-read on holiday, when they are usually left open and face-down, spine cracked, splashed with water from the pool or gathering fine grains of sand in between the pages. The best ones, the most loved ones, have faded in the sunlight and if you hold them in your hand, they open slowly to reveal the most well-thumbed pages. They smell reassuringly, comfortingly old. They are the ones that will never leave my bookshelves.

I just finished the last book on the ‘to read’ shelf.  It’s called Almost French and tells the story of an Australian writer coming to live with a Frenchman in Paris. She struggles with the move, to fit in, and to understand French society. The story itself is nothing special; it won’t make the cut and won’t join the beloved pile of faded, faithful old friends. But the final sentence in it struck a chord. It made me hopeful, and excited, and strengthened my resolve to keep searching for adventure.

I am happy I finally found an excuse to work my way through that shelf of unread books. Let no stone remained unturned, I say. I’ll just keep reading.

This post was originally written for Five Violets, re-posted here for your reading pleasure!

The Quarter-Life Crisis, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying About Failure

The plan is coming along nicely.

We've identified the city (check), come up with a business plan (sort of) and started tucking away savings (erm...yeah. I am putting that shoe fetish on hold, as of next week. Promise). We've sorted a date to leave our London flat. In February we're moving in with my mum for 6-8 weeks while we squirrel away our rent money. (Eeep.)

All that remains is to get driving (ok, so that's a fairly large undertaking, but my 19 year old cousin has  already beat me to the wheel in Wood Green, so I should bloody well be able to apply myself). It's getting embarassing. My US family members already think I'm some kind of idiot-savant who just about manages to hold down a job and feed myself without being able to drive to Walgreens. Not that we have a Walgreens to drive to. But you get my meaning.

Oddly enough, even with all this change coming, there's a strange feeling of calm about my future washing over me. Even though I have absolutely no idea what the next year will hold, I feel like I'm really working towards something. And even if it turns out to not be a sustainable business, at least I will have tried something independent, and been my own boss. It's not quite 'do what you love', because, as this very clever lady rightly says, what we love changes all the time. So I'm taking what I consider to be some very good advice and doing what I am. What I am is someone who needs a challenge. Someone who has always wanted to be fluent in another language, and do something I feel passionate about. Passion is everything, after all.

I spent this Saturday at the Nordic Study Abroad Conference, as a speaker alongside some very learned professors from the Universities of Cambridge University, Brown, Georgetown, and Copenhagen. 250 young Danish, Swedish and Norwegian students assembled at PWC's Copenhagen offices to hear from those who had done something different, and were all the better for it. I was possibly the least senior person on the billing, with no letters after my name, no ivy-league degree under my belt, and a mere 6 years' experience of working in the field of international student recruitment. To tell you the truth, I was pretty petrified of putting on that little microphone headset and owning the stage in the way some of the more seasoned professors had. Many of the other speakers had been truly inspiring, and they had managed to captivate the audience in that way that only those who have inbuilt charisma, and a true passion for what they are speaking about, can.  But watching the talk preceding mine, from Professor Sudhanshu Rai at the Copenhagen Business School, I was impressed by some home truths in his speech, which was all about not being afraid to make mistakes, or "fail". I was struck in particular by one statement he made, which put the whole 'failure is not an option' culture into a new light. He simply told the audience of very high-achieving, driven students that when we succeed, we experience a state of euphoria, but that when we fail, we experience a state of reflection. It's therefore only with reflection, and true consideration, that real successes are born.

Hearing that actually helped me to make a better presentation (I suppose the pressure of failure was lessened a bit!). I spent the rest of the conference being pretty inspired just being able to speak to these young people, who had such big plans in their sights. I'm not much older than many of them, and they were so committed, so eager to do something memorable, to chase their dreams that it made me stop for a minute to consider why I'm feeling something very similar now. I might be a little late to the party, but I've realised that we all need to do something that scares and exhilarates us once in our lives. 

A tiny me, onstage (bricking it).

I guess now that I'm not as scared of getting up and presenting alongside the great and the good, in front of an audience who will achieve more in their 20s than many of us will in our entire lives, I'm on the right road. There's still loads that I am scared of: getting a phrase completely wrong in my fledgling new language; running out of money; having to live at my mum's again for a few weeks, or months. I'm scared that I might really miss the security of an office job. I might miss London terribly. And I think I still have a lot to learn, even from those 18, 19 and 20 year-olds who haven't figured it all out yet. And basically I think, if I were younger, I'd run at the opportunity to gain new experiences and try out something new.  I'm not getting any younger, so today is the youngest I'll ever be. So I'm going to bloody well do something cool before I'm old.

Maybe it's a bona-fide quarterlife crisis. But hell, I'm enjoying it.

The Cautionary Tale of the Fat Grey Seal

I've been quiet for the last month, but that's a good thing, because any posts would have been fantastically dull. I spent much of March applying for a new job (I didn't get it, sadly), working my arse off and earning myself a holiday.

The holiday part is quite good, though. We went to the beautiful West Highlands of Scotland, bathed in sunshine upon our arrival and with temperatures in the high teens (on the first day, anyway). I wore waterproofs and hiking-type shoes almost nonstop, and actually enjoyed it, despite looking frightful in all our holiday snaps.

We walked. A lot. We sailed (well, someone else drove and parked the boat. I know I'm using the wrong words, and I don't care - I know nothing of boats). We watched birds! We saw enormous grey seals! They looked ridiculous! I wouldn't mess with them, though. Those blubbery blighters. Look at that one there, giving us stinkeye. He knew. We would have been happier on his turf. No wonder it was being guarded so carefully.

What?

There was a lot of whisky and cullen skink and Lorne sausages. There was no TV aerial in the flat where we stayed and so we watched some Hitchcock films and - fittingly - the DVD extras on Braveheart. There was also no phone reception to speak of, so it was pretty darned relaxing. I managed to read a lot and the days seemed longer, something I often long for in a normal working week.

It made me think very hard about city living. Without exception, every local we met in the sleepy little Argyll village we stayed in seemed to pity us for living in London. Some had lived and worked here themselves, and had great stories to tell, but none missed it. One couple in their sixties had come back for a holiday and enjoyed themselves, but for the most part the men hated cities and the women got their cultural fixes in Glasgow or from holidays in other places.

I don't think I'm quite ready to live in a place where no shops are open past 6pm (or indeed on Sundays) but it did make me consider what one really needs from the place they live. Something I seem to do regularly each time I leave the city, whether for a couple of days or a couple of weeks. I keep hearing that little voice beckoning me away. And I do wonder if I'd be more productive; maybe writing more, maybe spending more time talking to friends, less time exhausted on the sofa, less time travelling, less time worrying about money.

I know, I know. It's been two years of this love/hate shit with London. Even I'm bored of it now. I'm like a woman scorned who keeps telling her friends he'll change. 


So, definitely time for a new record. This is the last time I say this. Promise. 

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

I once had to do a Criminal Records Bureau check at work to be able to do volunteer work with some little'uns, and had to list my addresses for the past five years. I couldn't remember every postcode, of course. There were at least six or seven addresses - I'm sure every other London-dweller has a similar tale to tell.

I think it's gone something like this: Orpington (shudder), Southampton (university, a.k.a. many, many long days of pyjamas, films and the munchies), Balham (the first sweet taste of SW London and will always remain close to my heart), East Dulwich (lovely, green, but enormous 4x4 buggy central), Tooting (a near escape), Clapham (rah, happy singledom and bars, yah?), and finally Streatham (which brought domestic bliss, in an unloved area of SW2 that feels a bit now to me like a ratty old pair of shoes that are also my favourite and I can't throw away). And so it goes.

In less than 3 weeks, I’ll be upping sticks again to an area colloquially known as ‘Little Lisbon’, which is enough to make me all dreamy-eyed thinking about that fantastic city I love, with the beautiful horizon and the seascape and the trams and the elevadores and the fado and the inevitable pasteis de Belem. 

All right, with that I fear I may be building it up a smidge, but our new flat will be a 15 minute walk from the river and the Tate Britain, a stone’s throw from the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, that queer institution of raucous comedy and drag acts (a local tells me that Lily Savage lived on our street once), and already, putting out the feelers for local community projects and hangouts is really coming up trumps. A search for ‘Pilates classes Vauxhall’ brought me to the Bonnington Centre, a Community association in a sweet little house in Vauxhall Grove which lets rooms out by the hour for classes, meetings and therapy sessions, hence they have a regular schedule of yoga, tango, acupuncture, psychotherapy and bi-monthly film screenings, plus a cafe.

image credit:http://www.vivavauxhall.org/

A stroll around the new neighbourhood a couple of weekends ago saw us find a unique venue which has been winning accolades for its café's food from everything from the Evening Standard and Time Out to May's Eurostar magazine, so it’s generated quite a buzz. This is the Brunswick House Café, located at the Lassco architectural salvage shop at Vauxhall Cross. Walking through its many rooms stuffed with antiquities, reproductions and oddities, it feels like a museum you can touch everything in - an appealing cross between John Soane's house, the Antiques Roadshow, and a very upmarket car boot sale. I swear I will never buy another mirror or door handle at Ikea again.

image credit:http://adorngirl.com

So, an exciting new set of delights to discover awaits us. But as with all new beginnings, something else must end, and so we have to say goodbye to Streatham Hill. I've come to feel a fondness for this area too, although unloved by many and considered to be on the periphery of what is an appropriate commute from our friends in North London to come and see us, it has a charm all of its own and the most diverse community cross-section I've ever come across, in any part of London I've ever lived. Good work is being done here, too - from the valiant efforts of StreathamPulse to both unite and inform to the laudable local work of our MP Chuka Umunna. There are so many new businesses here which are thriving too, from the gorgeous Earl Grey and Rose cafe to The Hamlet bar and Thompson's deli adjacent to Streatham Hill station. The latest addition which has drawn rave reviews is The Manor Arms gastropub on Mitcham Lane, serving up Sunday roasts at £15 a pop and pulling in the punters. Me? I'm just as happy at Bar 61, drinking cheap red wine and nibbling on tapas for under £4 a plate. The point is, there's variety, and it's a good thing. I'm sure there's more on the way for Streatham, and it will be a shame to leave just as it finds its feet. But good things await SW2 and SW16 - of that I have no doubt.

The Gods of Lust and Money

So: the government wants to measure our happiness. 

We’re supposed to be feeling full of beans in the midst of savage public sector cuts and rising unemployment for women and young people at home, complete chaos in Libya, more earthquakes for an already devastated Japan, predictions for catastrophe in Nepal and increasingly worrying world weather patterns, an indicator that we have really and truly fluffed our best chances of having a sustainable future on this planet. Oh, that and we’re all going to die next year. 

Brill.

There was a time during the past winter when I thought: there must be more than this. Going to work in the dark, coming home in the dark, why would I do this? What am I doing here?

Now that Spring is here and the days are longer my thoughts are not quite so downcast. And of course I can appreciate the beauty of a British summer - I love Pimm's, Wimbledon, and have no problem with having a go at Making The Best of It. But as soon as it's not all Darling Buds of May I want to high-tail it out of here and my thoughts continually return to sunnier, more chilled out climes.

Sometimes I feel a bit like a mango in the fresh fruit section of a supermarket (bear with me here) - grown in a hot, tropical place, picked before being fully ripe, and flown over to sit in a chiller in grey old rainy old London-town. (I know, I know, there are better analogies. I can't find one right now though, so we'll leave that terrible one in.)

A Bad Analogy

 Is it London that I'm getting tired of? Maybe if I was living in the countryside the seasons wouldn't be such a mystery and I wouldn't feel so disconnected. But it’s more than the weather – after all, it’s been warm and sunny for the past week and I’ve still felt like I want to run away and bury my head in jam.

No, part of the problem is the feeling that I'm toiling away in the big bad city for, well, not much really.  I’m not managing to save, despite the laughable ‘London weighting’ portion of my salary. I’m not going to be able to buy property here.  I’m disillusioned with my job and the unfettered change that seems to be sweeping the sector. I don’t believe in what I’m being paid to say anymore. But annoyingly, despite being paid more than ever, it’s doing nothing for my happiness (nor my savings – I just seem to spend more). Finally, I’m fed up with fighting elbows, armpits and women with big bamsies (as my dear dad would have called them) on the journey in and out on the bus every day. Let David Cameron commute for a bit (for REAL, Dave, not with the car carrying your briefcase behind you). You stand up among the many baby buggies Cammo, and get jostled for a space to stand, by druggies, whilst listening to EVERYONE ELSE'S MUSIC EVERY MORNING via their ridiculously loud personal headphones. Or worse, their phones, with no attempt to make their musical experience personal at all. 

Not quite the overcrowded number 59 from Streatham, is it Dave?

Of course, I know I should be grateful for small mercies;

• We’ve got a little bit of green space to plant things in.
• My commute does not require taking the underground.
• The new Spanish upstairs neighbours aren’t anywhere near as fat and stompy as the previous ones, and they seem to be much less loud and bonky than in the beginning. 

Not to mention the big things, like:

• We have great friends here.
• I have nice colleagues.
• London is still full of bloody brilliant sights and people and I used to love living here. 

So what’s happened? If anyone out there is experiencing a similar crisis of faith, please share. Did you get over yours? Did you move away to run a knitting group or start a home school or pursue a long-desired career as a beekeeper? I feel I need some help falling in love with London again. 

Especially as we supposedly only have 1 year, 8 months and 4 days to go…

PS. Speaking of crazy bus journeys - check this dude out.

Grandma

My grandma, a woman of considerable character, an impish provocateur, a lady of substance who knew her mind until her final days, slipped quietly away on November 24th. It took us all by surprise that she decided to go so quietly. And decide she surely had, for she had suffered several falls, two small strokes and mild heart failure already this year, yet she hadn't given up in hospital. She had waited until the time was right for her to go, simply and quickly, at the nursing home she had lived in since August.

My mum asked me to say a few words at her funeral, which was scheduled for December 3rd,but the snow in Chelsfield, near Orpington, that town where all trains break down (and all who enter abandon hope) was about 18 inches deep and the town was practically unreachable, so the event was postponed to the 15th.

'A Remembrance of Grandma' was to be my section, after the vicar's introduction and history of her life - which made for some truly incredible listening.

Born on a small island off the coast of Norway in 1913, and raised to go to 'housewife school', she won a prize at said school for her goat-milking skills (the fastest goat-milker in the west... of Norway). In the early 1930s she came to England to work as an au pair for a rich Norwegian shipping magnate's family. By 1939 she had met my grandfather, a bit of a wide boy from Bermondsey, at the Norwegian Sjømannskirken (Seaman's Church) who apparently was a favourite with all the Norwegian girls due to an unparallelled knowledge of London's bus routes, and by 1939 they had a wartime wedding. She was unable to go back to occupied Norway during wartime and had no idea of how her family were for the duration of the war.

Making a life in Orpington in the 1940s as a foreigner must have been hard. Raising 5 daughters on a very tight budget, she excelled in making do and mending, cooking from scratch and tending to fruit and vegetables in her cottage garden. She spent her life mobilised for peace, too, after having been separated from her family by war, and was a vociferous supporter of Amnesty International and the WILPF.


Here are some of my other enduring memories of the fantastic woman I got to know over 28 years.

- Always in the garden when possible. I remember rows of hydrangeas, an archway of roses, and honeysuckle. Clothes were always drying on the line. Everyone remembers summers in her beautiful garden. It was her pride and joy.

-       A very snappy dresser! Liked to look good, have her hair done and always wore perfume. A true glamourpuss, and true to her star sign - a veritable Leo.

-       A firm but fair hand with children. She loved her grandchildren and her face lit up whenever there were children around. She was a stickler for good behaviour, though, telling us to eat up our ‘wegetables’ and had no problem with disciplining us if we were naughty.  She will always particularly be remembered for chasing a certain couple of my young cousins, Peter and Jonny, around the house with a wet flannel, a story which has become family legend.

-       This propensity for discipline was something that made her lack of success with her cat, Sandy, all the more astonishing – that cat weed everywhere! Oh, the smell! The other pet I can remember, Flossie the dog, was thoroughly pampered and had full run of the house as well. So we might say she was more of a softie when it came to animals...

-       A true trailblazer of the modern age, grandma championed fair trade products, shopping locally, recycling and the make-do-and-mend culture which is seeing a massive resurgence now. If you ever needed a bit of 15-year old tinfoil, or a tin of baking powder from 1987, her kitchen drawers were sure to hold your treasure.

-       Spirited and opinionated, even in her later years. She fought with nurses, argued about taking pills, told off carers and certainly didn’t mince her words when it came to a subject she felt passionate about. She championed the WILPF and Amnesty and we are a more politicised and outspoken family because of her - in the best way possible.

-       She LOVED her soaps. The Eastenders, Emmerdale Farm and Coronation Street theme tunes were forever burned into my brain after living with grandma for our first year in England. The TV was always on VERY LOUD, so in order to speak to grandma you would have to shout. The best outings/ entertainment for grandma were VERY LOUD things. An amusement for some of her great-grandchildren in her later days, was that at her house, one was not only allowed but encouraged to shout. Endless fun.

- And finally, she loved men! She always liked to meet new gentlemen and always, always enjoyed attention from a well-spoken young man. Rumours abounded of a gentleman friend in her last weeks at the nursing home and we were all glad to hear it.

Grandma, you will be remembered and missed by us all, for being a strong and inspirational woman who was ahead of her time in so many ways. We are all so proud and lucky to have known you for as long as we have.

Borghild Margit Cooke (née Nielsen) 17.8.1913 - 24.11.2010

The Grove, Balham

Sunday 1st February 2009

The Bitter: £45 for 2 roast beef dinners and a bottle of house red

The Sweet: A nice-looking Young’s pub with kindly staff

2. The Bitter End

A bit of background for you…

For the past year and a half, until the 1st of March, I lived with a writer. He’s a fantastic talent, and a kind and generous man. His writing style can be strange to the un-initiated; somewhat outré and wicked, but he has a natural flow that makes me green with envy. He’s too secretive about his work, but suffice to say I have every faith that he’ll be very successful at what he does.

We met two years ago. In my first post I mentioned the joining of a London social networking site, and he was the site’s editor. I joined on the recommendation of a friend of mine, with whom I worked on a short story magazine, which we were trying to promote at the time. My writer approached me for a quick interview about the magazine for the site, and after a few informal emails, and the piece went live, attempted to ask me out to something literary.

At the time, I was reeling from a particularly heartbreaking encounter with a wildly unsuitable older man. I didn’t accept the first invitation, but after having had my interest stirred, I messaged to apologise for not having made the first event, offering him the opportunity to invite me to something else. Which he did. We met on a clear February evening at the BFI and hit it off immediately. One drink turned into several, which turned into a goodnight kiss and the promise of further dalliances. Fairly soon we were inseparable, and after a heady (yes, whirlwind!) four months, we were living together.

Another 12 months, and he asked me to marry him, on my 26th birthday, in the most beautiful setting I could have imagined – at the end of an alfresco dinner in the cloistered courtyard of a 16th century French chateau.












My family were staying nearby, at the home of a family friend, and the following morning I couldn’t stay in bed; so excited was I to break the news. We rushed back to tell them everything and met with a distinctly lukewarm reception. I had thought my mother, aunt, uncle and cousins would have been ecstatic. But they reacted with ill-concealed caution. It was as if they didn’t expect things to work out. Maybe no one ever does. But they weren’t hiding their feelings as well as most of us are trained to.

They turned out to be right, in the end, anyway. We lasted 23 months. Our change was sudden, but we both knew what was happening. It’s strange: I’ve been in relationships that didn’t mean as much to me, that didn’t have the potential to affect my life on such a grand scale, that I fought harder to save. Why? I think we both wanted to spare one another the massive, crippling heartbreak. We meant too much to one another. Dragging out an inevitable decline wouldn’t have done either of us any favours. We’ll always genuinely care for one another; I still feel that acutely, a month later, in a different continent, as I travel for work.



I know what you’re thinking. Where the hell does The Grove pub in Balham come into all this?


He and I had often talked about writing, namely, how I wanted to do more of it, but had a lot of trouble ever finishing anything. He, on the other hand, could happily sit in his pants all day, tapping away on the keyboard, until I got home from work. Some days he would forget to eat, so engrossed in his work was he. I'm incapable of that kind of dedication, as a natural procrastinator, and I'd pretty much have to be suffering with a month-long bout of gastroenteritis to forget to eat. But he was full of ideas for me to get writing again, regularly. He saw how much I liked to post reviews of things, basically anywhere we went and ate, or slept, or enjoyed something. I'd started to keep little notes on what we'd eaten, and tried to remember what wine we drank, and how much it all came to, and I'd post reviews almost as soon as we got home. It became a bit of fun, but I really enjoyed knowing that people were reading them. He had a few ideas for me to translate this enthusiasm into something a bit more substantial. The one that stuck, and the one that has inspired me to start blogging, was this: write a novel... in the form of reviews.



That might sound a bit odd, but writing in manageable little pieces like that really appealed to me. The past few months have been full of memorable visits to London sights and eateries. And now, all the notes I've taken seem poignant and like they need to be documented, somehow, in a way that makes sense of the earth-shattering change that has befallen us.


So I've decided to give that concept a go. Yes, it may seem like I'm being a bit flippant and reviewing the relationship, but I'm honestly not. And he knows that. But it's only a fitting tribute to the idea he gave me that I try firstly to sum up our trip to The Grove pub, in Balham, where my most recent life-changing event took place.



It was unusual, to say the least. Our meal was a pretty excruciating affair, with streaming tears, noses, and plenty of hand and tissue-wringing. I hardly noticed the food: unheard of. Here's what I can recall.

I remember the portions were generous – they seemed massive at the time, and the prospect of finishing the meal was daunting. The beef was good quality – pink in the centre, a little chewy, but flavoursome nonetheless. Roast potatoes were stodgy and still had their skins on – something I’m not a fan of – but the other vegetables were fresh and not overcooked. Our bottle of house red was really quite lovely. This meal would have been idyllic on a freezing Sunday afternoon, and the ambience in the pub was good, with a mixture of families with children, young couples, and groups of friends patronising. I don’t remember much else about the place. I know the waiter serving us felt decidedly awkward, but dealt with this quite well, considering he would have noticed tears cruising down my cheeks each time he brought anything or took anything away from the table. I must have seemed bipolar.

I suppose other people must have realized what was going on, but at our table at the back of the dining area, we carried on trying to make the outing work at least as an exercise in gastronomy, trying to swallow back tears and lumps of cold beef.

There was nothing terrible about the pub at all, but it will remain fixed in my mind as a place loaded with negative connotations. It was here, halfway through a meal that had gone cold because of the pregnant pauses in our conversation, that we decided to give up the ghost, and those terrible final words rang out: “I guess that’s that, then”.

This was February 1st, the day the snow started to fall in London; snow that would disable the city and give nearly 7 million people a day off at home. As we left, I looked up and remember thinking that the weather was symbolic. It was proof of huge change befalling us, of a new and frosty beginning; a period of strange hibernation. The streets of South London were blanketed in white and insulated overnight, in preparation for the chaos that was to ensue.



Chaos, change, a gradual thawing out - these things continue.

But Spring is on the way.