Lost in London

A look at London and life in general through the eyes of someone who sometimes can't bear to watch.

Monday, March 31, 2008

Yesterday when I was young

How is it that the working week can drag by and yet the weekend seems to be gone in the blink of an eye. As I crossed Clerkenwell Road on my way to work this morning, it felt like only a few seconds since I'd been there last, feeling elated as it was Friday and I'd just got paid. Fast forward to Monday and I'm poorer, considerably less cheerful and back at work again. I'm 32 and have been working full-time for nine years; will I ever get used to Mondays?

I went out drinking in Camden on Saturday night. This is something I don’t generally do. I hardly ever cross the river and am a little bit scared of Camden once the sun slips out of the sky. I fancied a change though and so we endured the Northern line to meet a friend in Camden.

On entering the pub I instantly felt like a tourist. Endless unfamiliar faces and odd clothes stretched out before me as I made my way to the bar. In one corner, a boy with bad hair wore a badge which indicated he was celebrating his 21st birthday. Good looking people with their whole lives in front of them littered the place and I was glad when I could find a seat and sit down and be less conspicuous. Despite feeling like an osteoporotic pensioner, I enjoyed myself immensely. I realised how caught up I’d been in a smug thirtysomething bubble over the river in SE1.

It was quite nice being surrounded by the young and feeling by osmosis their contradictory inner struggles between not giving a damn and being riddled with insecurities. Although I would have quite liked to steal their smooth skin and waist sizes, I decided I didn’t want to be 21 again. 29, maybe, but not 21.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Through the mill

Why is it that I've read every letter of the judgment, every headline, every comment on her being a liar and a fantasist and even the words out of her own mouth, yet I still find a little bit of sympathy for Heather Mills?

Is it because I think step-daughter Stella looks like the sort of girl who'd kick and scream and refuse to eat her lunch because Daddy's new girlfriend looked at her funny?

Is it that I instantly don't trust Paul McCartney with his tight, mean mouth and droopy eyes? I don't know.

If I had been Sir Paul, I'd have given her the money she asked for: she's the mother of his daughter after all. You'd think he wouldnlt want her reputation destroyed for the good of his child, no? I guess, however,that in times of extreme emotion, we all do extreme things.

I look forward to this story evaporating from the news.

Today I heard a cliche I haven't heard for long time- that some single mums get themselves knocked up so they can live on benefits and get a flat from the council. It made me sad to hear it, especially from someone in their 20s. I don't doubt that, on occasion, it's true, but to see the re-emergence of that oft-used, prehistoric beating stick made the corners of my mouth turn down. Single mums aren't to blame for that much are they? I must ask my mother.