The London Diaries 5

The London Diaries – A survivors guide: The Umbrella Misfits.

The UMs and their reign of terror.

Couples should be cautious in public. Hence the derisive comment ‘Get a room’ used to make fun of pairs that are overly (and inappropriately) affectionate in public, in the hope of getting them to stop. We are talking about outrageous, almost obscene acts of hankering, the basest of all being ‘the hand hold’; it is no wonder why in some cultures hand holding is frowned upon while in others it is punishable by severance. Or is that stealing? I often confuse the two. In any case, it is safe to say that The Umbrella Misfits (a.k.a. UMs) were in the right to set the record straight in the Canary Wharf area against such couples guilty of offending public decency. The mysterious pair of Misfits were considered by some to be performing a service to society; why, they even had a fan base, followers, fellow singletons who could not stand the site of the uncivil behaviour of certain people. The UMs would hit, right in the middle of the hold with a sturdy, clear, bubble umbrella and run, run to the hilt; and yet reprimanded couple would never turn them in. It was because deep in their hearts they knew they were utterly provocative to display their happiness and endearment of one another to the world.
Thus the UMs were left to reign on the loose, keeping loved-up couples in line. And yet only two things were known about them: they were uber-hot, and they make the wickedest lasagne.

The London Diaries 4

The London Diaries – A survivors guide: Champagne Showers.

Whole lotta bubbly!

It was time for a drink to get my wits back onto straight. So, we ‘mind the gap’ and make haste to meet a friend in Knightsbridge at 6pm, the universal ‘drink-after-work’ time and in one of the poshest areas of London. One check for the much needed spirit, and a second check for plush location. Paradoxically, we were on time, following the motto ‘when in Rome…’, but still, somehow, our Serbian friend had beat us to the punch, or to the mojito more like it. The rum and mint cocktail multiplied into three in the crowded bar, that smelt like Paco Rabanne and American Express. Diamond Jubilee days of celebration coming up and people wore the Union Jack on their cheeks with pride. Mad Hatters in thick burgundy velvet jackets & khaki brown corduroy trousers were amusingly loud next to us, making small talk about liquorice rolling papers and various investment opportunities versus shortfalls, and of course the unanimous acceptance of their lack of style. Yet despite the good times and interaction with beautifully weird strangers, the nicotine craving kicks in and we exit the bar lighting-up, with a thirst for a tad bit more. JuJu is our next stop, a South Kensington bar and at first glance I felt slightly underdressed with my flower-power Martens, and we laughed off the state of Swallow’s boots! So in an attempt to feel up to par we thought we’d go straight to the cocktail menu, one watermelon martini & two Scorpios later, the place was buzzing, and you couldn’t miss the WAGs on parade, on the prowl for a good catch. I was reminded of a Manchester story when one of them approached a male friend of mine and asked him straight up, to his utter dismay, if he made more than 80,000GBP per year, or ‘Am I just wasting my time here, lurve!?’. I tell you the place was heaving with Rolex detectors and income inspectors, mostly resembling Essex girls! Pffff!!! Our party was safe in our amusement as we realised even in our worn and clumsy shoes, we were effortlessly over qualified for the place. But the front table we were sitting at was on reserve, and so we had to be moved to the centre of the bar as every step we took the lights became dimmer, and the music pumped louder. The bar morphed into a full blown club. So we thought it would be more appropriate to crack open a bottle of bubbly, at Serbia’s instigation.
We sat at a long sofa sharing the low table with two other parties. There were Nordic Geek gods in preppy attire, polo shirt and cardigan worn across shoulders, both sporting thick rimmed spectacles. Hilarious. Girls were all over them like bees to honey, while the objects of desire were nonchalantly more self absorbed. And then there were two ladies, demure and respectful which the Swallow spared no time in befriending them. And lo and behold, they spoke Greek. Oh the joy! Come meet the rest of the crew, and whoops, there goes another bottle! The Nordic Geeks grew tired of their harem and buggered off, praise! The Greek talking ladies had to retire for the night, and I do not doubt that the chirpy Swallow may have tired them a bit with her excessive excitement for fellow language speakers. These two were quickly replaced by a chocolate-deluxe duo, one of which had serious self esteem issues. Swallow to the rescue! Third bubbly cracked and our waitress, who was also a student at the Metropolitan police, drank with us, and we shared the love with kisses.
 It was time to call it a night and we made our way outside into the cold and rain but it was just as fun outside as it was it, even more so! We got offered to spend the night with one guy who advertised his impotence. At the time we could not in our right minds (or champagned minds) understand why anyone would negatively promote themselves, but now it strikes me. This dude was cunning. He had tapped into the female psyche which yearns for security and a need to feel safe over a good shag, seven out of ten times. Needless to say, we declined, and do not regret ever since.

The London Diaries 3

The London Diaries – A survivor's guide: Animal Inside Out.

A raw deal.

No sight-seeing was in plan. After seven years in the UK I like to think of myself as a ‘familiar’ of London; I must have visited the city 20 or so times in my seven year sentence and had pretty much done the touristy bit time and over again. However, an Animal Inside Out exhibition at the National History Museum struck my fancy. I was enthralled with the idea of finally getting a glimpse of the artefacts as I had missed the Body Worlds exhibition some years ago, on the count of not being able to handle the 1 hour and 15mins queue in the rain. Arriving at the entrance of the exhibition, we were greeted by a bird expo, which was overall characterized as scrupulous. The detail in the exhibits was overpowering at times, the beaks, the rows of feathers, the feet, the wings, it was overbearing. Hummingbirds, cuckoos, canaries, parakeets, sparrows among the small ones, even peacocks, vultures, ostriches, and eagles among the larger ones. I studied them in awe all the while hoping they were not all real. At the till before paying to the main show, I asked the cashier, are the birds real? Rule of thumb as I was informed by the acme faced young man was that, anything encased you can safely bet it used to fly once. My heart sank. I looked back and there were cases everywhere! The only bird which was posturing proudly in the room was the Dodo. I actually felt relief for the extinct bird that was the only once that was not a corpse on display in the name of natural science and education. And this was only the forefeast to the proper exhibition. Brace yourselves. Upon entering, I was welcomed by an enormous Mr Squidward who was nothing like his animated projection as Bob Squarepant’s cranky but endearing neighbour. Octopi, molluscs and deep sea creatures and the glowing red capillary formation of a shark at the end of the first hall, all lay there in their transparent prisons, stupefied under the spell of plastination and staring back at me, but I did not shudder. Moving along, nervous systems served on a platter: rabbits, cats, rats; complete with brain, spinal cord and peripheral nerves, even the bulging eyes. Shivers? Down my non glass encased spine and I began to move a bit more quickly through the motions. Then came lessons in anatomy and skeletons of ruminants with ligaments clinging tight to the livid bones; I took a deep breath, before entering the final room thinking 'Oh my word, the ordeal must be over soon!'  I was greeted by Billy the bull, Gene the giraffe, a Harvey the horse, and Greg the gorilla, their bodies tangible and missing only the skin, all muscles and fat visible and this time, I shuddered. It was like a vegetarians’ nightmare, like the workplace of a halal butcher and I felt uncomfortably in awe and asked why. To levitate my mood, for a few seconds I reveled in the idea that the animals would take their revenge by night through some kind of zombie born breath of life!      

The London Diaries 2

The London Diaries – A survivors guide: Camden bound.

The Freak Fair.

It was not a bright nor early start of the day; it was grim but we couldn’t waste a second of our contentment. After a long night session of catching-up, followed by a breakfast session of granola, bagels with peanut butter and marmalade, hot tea with milk and caramel coffee filling the quaint kitchen, it was time for some radical change to our surroundings. We marched towards the hardcore albeit worn backdrop of Camden Town. Spiked, punked Mohawks fence your eye-level vision, while leather and studs are in full swing; Goths have a ball and Trancing Ravers have their House of Pain in the realms of Cyber Dog. The market bursts with homogenous items, clothing bearing musical emblems, skin tight accessories for fetish followers, and shoes that add between four and ten centimetres to your height and up to 500kg to your weight when you realise that you are witnessing the Chinese Invasion. Further into our journey around the stalls, the multitude of shops and vendors the Chinese Invasion continues. (There will be one more mention of the Chinese Invasion later on, but of a different sort). Spring rolls, chow mein, chop suey and kung po tease the nostrils enough to cause salivation culminating a drum rolling stomach rumble. You listen to the glutton within and give in to the greasy pleasure of a 5GBP generous portion. Batteries replenished, and off you go for the last time round the freak fair. You suddenly feel languid and sluggish, as the oily amalgamation lines your insides. It’s starting to feel almost tricky to keep your regular pace as you start to see things a little trippy. “Take your picture in the Wild Wild West saloon, complete with authentic attire, only for a tenner” said the blonde girl in the corresponding attire, who would easily pass as Billy the Kid’s third wife. No thanks love, I think I’ll pass the vintage carnival experience, just to think of the heavy velvet multi-tiered dress with its petticoat and undergarment, the choking corset and wig makes me nauseous at this point. And I’d much rather be an Indian if you ask me anyway, there are way too many pseudo-chiefs nowadays. Exchanging looks with a certain set of people on the bridge means a certain something in local body language and seller is waiting for a prolonged glance as the cue to showing you the range of his ware; these will undoubtedly wear out your body and your mind for a while. Caution to the wise. But sooner or later the walking and talking takes its toll, and since we cannot walk or talk much longer we welcomed Ben & Jerry, and watched the Huntsman seek the girl who was fairer than the malevolent queen.

The London Diaries 1

The London Diaries – A survivors guide: Intro.

Dear Gray,

I had been planning the escapade to the grim capital two months prior to my departure, my eagerness emanating from deep earnestness with three missions on my quest-list: to see the long, lost Swallow, to be struck by metal-thunder, and to explore the ground for a potential migration.

The longing was great, the excitement as the days-to-launch counted down was fervent, as was my secretly harboured desire to be able to carry the joys of local weather with me across the sea. To this effect, the background check regarding the destination temperature conditions seemed to play a Feline & Rodent game on me; meteorology overly favoured my destination in the fore run to the Cat’s arrival, where all the Mice of London were out soaking up the sun rays. As soon as the Cat landed paw, the Mice scurried away into their burrows (a.k.a. Boroughs), shunted by the water pouring from the familiar Gray sky. Typical irony when your suitcase is packed full of cotton, you actually could use a bit of wool.

Nevertheless, nothing, not even the wind, the cold or the rain could wash the grin off my face. In forty minutes and 32 pages of Huxley’s “Island” later, I was practically within wingspan of the Canadian Goose’s nest, where the Swallow had taken refuge. It is no coincidence that their residence was in a place called ‘Canary Wharf’.

The adventure begins.