Not really. I just got a haircut at Taylor Taylor and some new specs.
And some new perfume – Estée Lauder’s Youth Dew (1953), which smells absolutely nothing like youth or dew and everything like PHHHHWWOOOOAAAAARRRR.
One of the reasons I moved to Shad Thames was the quietness. While Wandsworth Town out in Zone 2 was virtually suburbia in terms of London living, our flat was right on the beginning of the A3 with a bus stop outside. A bus stop! you say – How convenient. Yes, it was convenient, but it was perhaps one of the busiest bus stops in all of Londontown. 20 routes or some shit went through there, with buses stopping non-stop between the hours of 7am and 11pm.
Shad Thames – despite being right on top of Tower Bridge and in Zone 1 – is like Dickensian London in comparison. Minus all the grime and disease, of course. What I’m saying is, you turn off of Tower Bridge Road into Shad Thames and it’s dead quiet – cobbled, walk in the streets, old world and lovely.
Shad Thames by robbinhamman
Except, rather bafflingly, between the hours of 11pm and 7am.
The not-24-hour nature of London meant the buses stopped and my little flat in Wandsworth Town offered quiet respite at the midnight hour. I think I might’ve been awoken in the middle of the night once in the 2 years I lived there – likely due to rowdy drunken revelry, which will happen wherever you live in London.
But Shad Thames? This upright Dr Jekyll turns into Mr Hyde when the sun goes down.
When I first moved in, I sat bolt upright in bed at 3am because it sounded like a fucking aircraft carrier was trundling its way down the street just outside at 1mph.
And the number of times I’ve woken up at some ungodly hour to some unidentifiable – and very loud – noise, well, I can’t even tell you.
Last night, as I lay sleeping at 2am, a howling began. A screeching. Growling. Screaming. Shrieking. Was it an animal? Was it dying? Was something getting bummed outside my window? I did not know. But it slowly started moving down the street, the decibels lowering. I went back to sleep.
And then at 3am, it began again. And then moved slowly down the street. I went back to sleep.
And then at 3:30am, it began again. And then moved slowly down the street. I went back to sleep.
And then at 4am, it began again. And then moved slowly down the street. I went back to sleep.
And then at 4:45am, it began again. And then moved slowly down the street. I went back to sleep.
And then at 5:00am, it began again. And then moved slowly down the street.
And I went back to sleep. But, seriously…
I speak to my brother nearly every day over GChat while he’s stationed over in Djibouti. Our conversations in the run up to Christmas have been . . . interesting.
Brother: Happy Boxing Day!
Me: You’re a couple days off
Brother: Happy Boxing Day!
Me: Um, still not Boxing Day.
Brother: Happy Boxing Day!
Me: Hrm.
Brother: Happy Boxing Day!
Me: . . .
Brother: Happy Boxing Day!
Me: Almost.
Brother: Happy Boxing Day!
Me: Happy Christmas!
Me: HAPPY BOXING DAY
Brother: merry christmas
Husband: Have you written a blog post all year that isn’t you moaning about something?
Life is beautiful, motherfuckers.
When you’re 21, you’re no fun.
Found this picture lying around at the parental in-laws. I was 22, in fairness – but then those song lyrics wouldn’t work.
Oh, to be 22, possessing Photoshop skills… They were simpler times.
Actually, there’s no way I wish them back. I was pretty insecure and I probably hadn’t eaten for 5 days. So I was digitally mysterious – and really fucking hungry.
* * * * *
It’s Christmas Eve. I’ve made it back to Essex. I stood up on the train the whole way last night because there were no seats. And I’m sick again for the second time in as many weeks. Also, I forgot about the coffee situation in Essex – that is to say, it doesn’t exist. How have I managed this oversight?
Aside from figuring out the caffeination situation, I have to wrap some presents. I hate wrapping presents.
Joyeux noël, bitches.
Peace out, good will toward men. And women.
It’s my last day in the office in 2011. I’m sitting here listening to Madonna’s Greatest Hits over my headphones as loud as possible in an attempt to block out Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas is You – which is currently being projected over someone’s computer speakers (because, well, who could possibly object to that…).
So I’m sitting here, feet up on the desk, rocking out to Madge, reviewing some last-minute changes to the website begrudgingly (someone didn’t get the memo that you’re not actually supposed to work the last day in the office before Christmas), and reflecting on the highs and lows of the working year.
Things I learned in 2011:
[Note: the people above are not assholes. Other than the one in the middle. She's sometimes an asshole.]
And with that, desk-maneki-neko and I say goodbye to 2011 and beckon 2012. Here’s to learning to love the assholes a little more – while sober – in the year to come. And to getting. shit. done.
Just a little text message conversation after lunch…
Alan: Jesus is the reason for the season.
Me: Jesus is the reason I take more liquid lunches? THANKS, JESUS!
Alan: Best. Prophet. Ever.
