An Epic Fail of London Living

Is deciding it would be a good idea to traipse a mile and a half across London in 4-inch wedge high-heels.  Then not bringing an emergency back-up pair of shoes.  Then also leaving your Oyster card in your everyday bag when you switched your belongings to your classy bag.  Then having to pay £4 for a single fare on the Tube to get home.  Then being reprimanded by an evening doorman whom you’ve never seen before in your building (he must be new).  I mean, seriously? Really? I’m standing at reception with my shoes in my hands, and I get a lecture about how important it is to take my building card with me everywhere? That’s like adding insult to injury.  I KNOW how important it is to bring my Oyster card holder with me everywhere, dude. I just paid £4 to travel three stops on the Tube because I forgot it, security monkey.

me: ‘Um, I left my entry card in my flat.’

him: ‘It’s really important that you bring your card with you everywhere you go.’

me: ‘…Yeah, I know.’

him: ‘No, it is really important.’

me: ‘Um, yeah. I know.’

him: ‘You see, I can’t let you in without your card. It’s really important that you bring it everywhere with you.’

me: ‘[are you shitting me?] Um, yeah… I know.’

him: ‘I’m not supposed to let people in without their cards. You need to have your card.’

me: ‘I’ve been a resident here for almost a year now. I’m not just a summer guest. I know I’m supposed to have my card, but I accidentally left it in my flat. Here is my door key. Would you like to see my door key?’

him: ‘It’s really important. Make sure you bring your card with you everywhere.’

 

It was only at this point that he opened the gate to let me in.  Douche.  I’ve probably left my card key in my flat three times previously in the amount of time I’ve been here, and I’ve never had that big a problem. Mostly, the people are like, ‘All right, yeah. Come on in.’ But this guy, as if he knew it would be hammering that nail in the coffin of my Urban-Living Fail to heckle me about leaving my Oyster card holder at home and make me stand there, with my shoes in my hands, for at least a minute-and-a-half while he weighed up the options of letting me in or leaving me outside.  I mean, it wouldn’t have been a big deal to call Red up and make him come downstairs to get me, but come on. Give me a fucking break. I’ve lived here for nearly 11 months!

Gah.

And now for something completely different.

Canned macaroni and cheese

Canned macaroni and cheese?  The canned food industry has reached a new level of creepy.

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This recipe disgusts me.

Looking Good.

It had potential.

But then…

Coriander! Too. Much. Coriander!  Ew!  Bleh!  Yuck!  Why have you led me astray random internet-recipe-posting blogger who shall remain un-linked-to?  NO ONE should eat that much coriander!  Me?  I TRUSTED YOU!

Perseverance

 

I tried.  I tried to keep going.  I tried to have faith in your recipe.  But I failed.  I simply could not eat another bite.

We ordered a pizza.