And Now for Someone Completely Different...

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:  London is chocker-block with interesting folk. No-where else I have lived has such a diverse population.  And I’m not just talking race, sexuality, etc etc – I am talking people from different backgrounds with different beliefs (political, religious or otherwise), different lifestyles, and, even though we live in such close proximity to each other, completely different views.

Let’s face it though, we very rarely meet and mix with people from different “sets”.  Don’t get me wrong, I like to think my buddies are a diverse lot, but we’re all pretty much the same – middle class, university educated young professionals trying to find our way in life and having a bit of fun in the process.  Okay, so there are some deviations and some of us are faring a little better than others, but you get my drift.  Even at work where my colleagues probably come from a much broader catchment of society, we all have a very similar outlook on life – working in the public sector can guarantee that you are probably more interested in doing something beneficial for others than going home with a fat pay-check at the end of the month.

Every now and then, though, I get to meet someone whose lifestyle feels completely different from my own.  Take this week for example.  Although under less than happy circumstances, I met a 59 year old man who was a self-confessed “old hippy”.  He reminded me of a nicer version of Bill Nighy’s character in Love Actually - he’d lived the high life in the seventies and was now having to face the consequences.  However, despite his sorry state of affairs, he fascinated me.  His flat was full of books about spirituality, his walls were covered in photos of rockers from years gone by and his sofa was strewn with cushion covers and throws that wouldn’t have looked out of place at Woodstock.  All in all, I thought he was pretty cool, and if I had met him under different circumstances, I would have loved to listen to him tell me stories about his life over a pot of tea – or something stronger.

Then, last night, I met the creator of a lifestyle magazine who was looking for new bloggers (watch this space!).  We met in an Indian restaurant in the City where he was filming a promotional video.  Not only did I end up being an extra in the film (sans make-up bag – eek!) but I also got a couple of free vodka-tonics – and a scrumptious Indian meal to boot.  But what was fascinating was meeting a group of people who lived in a world of PR, marketing and Mayfair – not a world I am particularly familiar with.  The guy I met had created the magazine on his own from scratch – and everyone who was launching a new luxury item wanted him to cover it.  Yes, he has worked his butt off to get where he is today, but as he arranged to meet his friends at China White later that evening – and get them all on the guest list – I admit my eyes widened in awe.  I felt like Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada, the only difference being that this chap was not only successful but absolutely lovely too.

So, after a lovely weekend with my nearest and dearest up in Peterborough, I hope to hear from my new media muse – and get another glimpse into his life.  And, in a week or too, I might just arrange a visit to my old hippie – on purely professional grounds, of course.

In-Conveniences

I ain’t happy.  Tomorrow I have to go back to work.  This is bad for two reasons.  Firstly; I will need to tackle a four-day weekend worth of emails as well as an already groaning to-do list.  Secondly; I will be forced to use the office toilets. 

I don’t understand it.  I work in a seven-storey building and share the third floor with a handful of teams including HR.  However, some of the women I have to share WCs with have some shocking habits. I’m not just talking toilet roll and hand towels strewn over the floor, the occasional un-flushed toilet and taps left running either.  I am talking urine on the floor – and, once a month, worse.  They stink all the time, and the cubicles have warped to the point that the doors won’t lock.  To summarise, they make your average portaloo at Glastonbury look luxurious.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not exactly anal when it comes to housekeeping, but I have standards and appreciate a nicely kept bathroom.  That does not make it okay to expect people to pay for the convenience of, well, using your conveniences.  In London, this is a bit of a problem.  Public loos are few and far between and quite often when you do find one, you have to pay.  And then there are those pubs and clubs who employ someone to sit in the bogs with a face like a slapped arse who expect you to tip them for squeezing the soap. 

It goes without saying that the nicest restrooms I’ve sampled are ones that I haven’t had to pay to use either.  It is a well kept secret that there are some clean, well stocked and – wait for it – FREE toilets in St Pancras station – putting the ones next door in Kings Cross to shame.  And then there are the pubs that not only trust you to wash your own hands and keep their loos smelling sweet, but equip their rest rooms with comfortable seating, provide hand cream as well as posh soap and decorate their facilities to a standard Phil and Kirstie would be proud of.

So, come about ten-o’clock tomorrow when my first coffee of the day has hit my bladder, please think of me as I attempt to hold my nose whilst keeping the broken cubicle door closed in the ladies.  Or, if they are particularly nasty, you might just see me hopping across the road to St Pancras station.

Going for Gold

Okay, so I admit it. I’ve been ever so slightly cynical about the Olympics. Call me a pessimist, but I just had visions of an unbearable underground, bursting buses and trains full of tiresome tourists. With the economy on its knees after years of living beyond our means, a massive overspend seemed inevitable – and so did a humongous Council Tax bill to match. With the events of 7/7 occurring just the day after our bid was won, London began to feel very vulnerable – and the Olympics started to look like a missile-magnet long before the first diggers descended on the East End.  In short, I wasn't looking forward to it.


But, you know what? I think the last two weeks have been more than bearable. The bus journey into work has if anything been quicker and, although there have been an increase in cameras, maps and rucksacks worn back to front, Kings Cross hasn’t felt much busier than normal. And, what’s more, I think it has put everyone in a good mood. The news has been dominated by gold medals won rather than jobs, businesses and, essentially, money lost. People are proud of their country again – Britain is great once more. Even I was moved to see little Jess Ennis win her gold (it was on in the pub) and felt a shiver run down my spine as I walked through the streets of South London last Saturday night to the sound of elated cheering coming from every direction.  And, despite a little bit of a slip up with security, I don't think our mates Seb and Boris have done a bad job.  In fact, if TFL functioned without line closures and the rest of London ran this smoothly all of the time... okay, so that might be a taking it too far.  Let's just leave it that I am quietly impressed.

So, as the closing ceremony approaches, maybe I feel a little bit of regret for not getting a bit more behind Team GB. Okay, so I’ve kept an eye on the results table and put it on for a bit of background telly once in a while, but I’ve not exactly got Olympic fever. But I think it is fair to say that the rest of the country has got into the swing of it and, for the first time in ages, there’s a whiff of optimism in the air. And, as far as I am concerned, is a result worth waiting for.

I'm loving Angel instead...

It’s Friday afternoon and I’m watching the clock.  Not because I’m at work - a lovely flexi-day has seen to that – but because I’m off to Angel in a little over an hour to meet my favourite, if a little mad, American.

I imagine some of you will be rolling your eyes at this point.  Angel, on a Friday evening?  Such a cliché.  Okay, so it might not be as trendy as Hoxton and Shoreditch or as la-di-da as Kensington and Chelsea, but it has a hell of a lot going for it.

Last Saturday I found myself at everyone’s favourite blue square on the Monopoly board once again.  I met a couple of friends at the Union Chapel at two, and, having caught the last twenty minutes or so of the Saturday lunchtime session have vowed to return in the autumn for some very reasonably priced – and really rather good – live music. 

We then pottered over to the Business and Design Centre to have a look around the Czech House. Being frugal types, we weren’t prepared to pay the fiver to get in – but were in awe of the art installation outside.  The almost life-sized double-decker in front of us showed off its stamina with a series of press-ups from its muscular arms – and, ladies, it’s bottom was pretty peachy too.  No, haven’t been smoking anything I shouldn’t have.  Go on, head to Upper Street – you have to see David Cerny’s giant sculpture to believe it.

After a spot of lunch on the green (or a blueberry flavoured Samba Swirl iced yoghurt in my case – yum!) we walked down to the Victoria Miro gallery near Old Street to see Grayson Perry’s tapestries.  They beautifully illustrated his study into class and taste as documented on his recent TV show for Channel 4, In the Best Possible Taste.  They were magnificent – and thought provoking.  No matter which “class” you consider yourself to be, I can guarantee you will see a bit of yourself in at least one of the pieces – even if you’d rather that you didn’t.

After a swift pint of two in The Narrowboat, I headed home with my friend to get ready for a spot (or rather a lot as it turned out) of dancing.  After a rather tasty curry and a couple of beers in front of the telly, we got changed and headed back to the capital of Islington.  A couple of drinks later (including an espresso) we went to the O2 Academy for Club de Fromage – and were delighted to find out that, for an extra three quid, we could have entry into Feeling Gloomy too if the cheesy pop got all a bit much for us.  We had a great time – the music was a palatable cheddar (with a few tasty chunks of stilton thrown in for good measure), made all the more digestible by our ability to interchange with the sedentary indie next door.  Okay, so there were the usual pissed, rude and annoying people in the crowd, but generally the atmosphere was quite chilled, and even the men who tried to woo us with their moves were cool when we politely turned them away.

So, yes, Angel isn’t the coolest corner of the capital, but I can’t help but love it.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to put my face on and decide what to wear...

Oh to network...

As I type, I am sat on a train with two of my favourite things next to me:  a selection of yummy chocolates from Cologne courtesy of Mama Berry and a lovely fat glossy copy of Red magazine, courtesy of, well, Red.  Technically this copy was given to me by its creators, along with lots of other goodies, at their most recent networking event for wannabe writers.  Okay, so I had to pay for the privilege, but not only did I get my money back through the medium of goodie bags, Prosecco and canapés, I also made contact with a fellow blogger and writer – who has offered to pass some work she was offered my way.  Result!

You see, I have discovered and whole heartedly embraced the wonders of networking.  And, trust me, in London, there are plenty of opportunities.  It started relatively small with monthly meetings set up by More to Life Than Shoes.  There I met women who, like me, wanted more from their lives.  They inspired me to start my novel and, over two years on, I’m nearly ready to send it out into the big bad world, plus they introduced me to a children’s writer who needed an illustrator – and took me on.  Okay, so I’ve yet to get that elusive book deal (and I WILL get it!), but it has been a hell of an inspiration.

Then there has been my book group where I met my blogging muse Paperback Reader.  She not only got me started in the world of blogging and twitter, but also introduced me to the wonderful ladies at Grumpy Young Women who I wrote for before one of the editors they closed for business.  I stay in touch with them and shall soon be providing an image for a project one of the girls is working on about cool girls and their sewing machines – and am insanely flattered to learn that I apparently fall into this category.

Amazingly, sometimes a new opportunity to network just lands on your lap.  Take the other week.  I was sat outside a pub with a friend, bemoaning my lot and swooning over a flat I’d just seen for sale in Brighton that had “Shelly” written all over it.  My chum did her best to bring me crashing back to reality by pointing out how tiring the daily commute would be.  The chap sat next to us chipped in, explaining that he lived in Brighton and commuted to his job at the Birmingham Institute of Arts.  Needless to say, as the evening went on and the beer flowed, I told him about my heady days as a Visual Art student - only to find out that he is personally acquainted with two of my old lecturers and would happily but me back in touch with them.  Proof enough that drinking is, in fact, good for you...

It doesn’t end there.  On Monday I shall be swanning off to the launch of Alarmist magazine, a new publication packed full of wit, writing and art.  I forget how I heard about them but sent in one of my illustrations for consideration.  Sadly it was not for them, but... they invited me to the launch anyway.  Hurrah!

So, if you will excuse me, I have a glossy to read, a new acquaintance to email and an awful lot of chocolate to eat.  And, who knows, the guy sat across from me might just be a really handy contact...

Something old, something new...

This week I am rather proud of myself.  On Monday, I finally got around to visiting the Horniman Museum.  I’ve been meaning to visit it since before I moved to North London in 2005, yet it was The Body Adorned exhibition that finally lured me down to Forest Hill.

The Horniman has to be seen to be believed.  With its collection of model, stuffed and pickled animals, along with an eclectic mix of artefacts from around the world including masks, marionettes and mummies, it’s an eccentric Victorians treasure trove that I suspect even Ripley would be proud of.

Despite its ageing collection, the Horniman embraces the new.  The surroundings are clean and modern; the aquarium, although much smaller, rivals the one sat next to the Thames in the city centre.  The anthropological approach of The Body Adorned exhibition studies the attire of man throughout the ages and around the world – as well as that of the contemporary Londoner.

After a good couple of hours mooching around the museum and a wander around the gardens (cut short by some decidedly autumnal weather), I couldn’t help but admire the Horniman’s blend of old and new.  But then, I guess it shouldn’t really surprise me.  If London is good at anything, it is mixing up the past with the present.  Take architecture.  Today, the Shard, Gherkin and Eye sit alongside Big Ben, St Pauls and Monument like peas in a pod.  The Tate Modern and National Gallery are loved equally by Londoners and visitors alike.  The V&A showcases fashion and design of yesterday, today and often tomorrow within its four walls.  Who can help but love it?

And, in a city of politicians and students, business and medicine, London isn’t short of ideas and new thinking – and never has been.  The capital’s museums are shrines to the brains of our past, a legacy of the philosophy and science of our predecessors.  In fact, the mind boggles at the thought of what has grown out of London – and how it continues to blossom.

So, next time you find yourself in a stuffy museum or at a bizarre exhibition, take a moment to remember how far we have come – and how amazing the Londoners of yesteryear really were.  They have made our city what it is today – and are the foundations of what we will make it tomorrow.

Pro People

I have a small problem.  It appears that, despite my best efforts, I have been struggling to find things to hate about London.  This is most problematic, not because I particularly enjoy being pissed off, but because the name of this blog is, well, Love to Hate London.  If Trading Standards or Ofcom were to read my most recent posts, I might be in bother.

This has lead to a lot of soul searching.  It is true, things about London still really do my head in.  But the good really seems to be outweighing bad.

Take people, for example.  During the last week there have been times when London’s inhabitants have really got under my skin.  From the woman who let me hold a door open for her and walked through it without saying thank you to the dumb-asses who just don’t get the concept of moving down the buses and the “youths” who insist in loudly cursing and abusing whilst they spit and smoke skunk, there are some Londoners who I would really love to see propelled into outer space.

But, even so, there are so many people I have met here who fill me with positivity – the pros who outweigh the cons.  A couple of weeks ago, after a rather inspirational wedding reception, a friend and I decided to find a barn dance in London – and we did at Camden Ceilidh Club.  We had a blast, skipping, swirling and hopping along with the best of them.  And, as well as being a fab workout (next time it will be leggings and a vest at most), everyone was incredibly friendly, encouraging us to join in and, despite our lack of expertise, clapping us along as we jigged our way through. 

Last week I met another group of like-minded people at the Southbank’s Open School.  Artist Tracey Emin and writer Jeanette Winterson spoke to a group of creatives about the use of autobiography in their work.  It was fascinating to hear their thought processes and really refreshing to be in a room full of like-minded people.

But, you know what?  The most inspiring people I’ve met in London of late were a group of children I met on Sunday who I was lucky enough to sing along with at a concert in Camden.  In a city (and country for that matter) that often demonises young people and focuses on the few who cause problems for the rest of us, it was great to see so many young talented people using their free time so constructively.  And, between you and me, I suspect a few Adele’s and Amy’s of the future were in attendance.

So, I shall continue to search for something to moan about.  But, I suspect, with such a cool crowd in the capital, I’ll always find something else to love as I go about my life in London.