Can’t be bothered to read? Skip the babbling – 2:35
When I told my boyfriend Roman that I wrote some poems about London, he assumed I meant in a journal… not that I went full hog and self-published a book on Amazon. When he found the flimsy paperback and managed to wrestle it out of my hands, he opened it up and read Brixton Date as I covered my ears and sang ‘LALALALA!’
I don’t have many regrets in this life, but I do wish I had held off on pressing ‘publish now’ on ‘Oh London Town, You Let Me Down’.
I wrote it during my quarter-life crisis when living in Australia. (A popular quarter-life crisis destination for us millennials.) There, in the Brisbane Library, I was overthinking my time in London. I had lived there from 19 to 26 and had a lot of questions. Why did I drink so much gin? Do I even like Brixton? How did I end up in advertising? Are Honest Burgers really the best burgers? I should have just written a page in my journal like a normal person, but no, my overthinking turned into poems with rhyming couplets like:
‘Fat cat’ / ‘Rat.’
and
‘Love’/ ‘Pub’
And.verses like:
‘Maybe you’re my hero,
just for today
or maybe
You’re just another man.’
*squirm*
When I wrote it, I was certain I would never return to London to live EVER AGAIN. As far as I was concerned, I had grown out of place in the same way I grew out of the Easter Bunny. London was for the wide-eyed 24-year-olds who believed they could conquer the world… before they realised simply buying a sofa was an effort.
There is a rough plan people seem to follow in life: we do the ‘big city thing’ in our twenties, marry the love of our lives, and then move to a big-ish town to have kids. It’s what my parents did; they went from Battersea to a town called Didcot.
In my novel, *PLUG* Amy Elman Doesn’t Feel Sexy, Amy is saving up for a deposit to move out of London and live in a dreamy house in the countryside with her fiancé, Josh. I wrote it because I felt a lot of people could relate to this scenario. (She is also trying to work out why they are not having sex – but that’s another blog.) *END OF PLUG*
It was the plan I thought I would follow. By now, I should have kids with names and a strong opinion on Peppa Pig, but somehow, at 34, I have found myself back in London. North London, of all places. My view from my window of Oxford houses has now been replaced with the view of Alexandra Palace. The Bodleian Library was the biggest attraction nearby; now it’s the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium, which has delighted my dad.
Oxford is an excellent city if you’re a mum, a student, or a doctor discovering vaccines, but I’m none of these. So, I swallowed my (rhyming) words and moved back to the Big Smoke.
It’s been eight whole years since I left. I feel like Simba returning to Pride Rock, except I’m not a future king or a lion. So perhaps that’s a poor metaphor.
London hasn’t changed a lot, but there are a few differences. There are these fluffy musical bikes that hover around Covent Garden like Furbies on wheels. Uber is now a boat, and there’s now the Elizabeth line, which puts the other lines to shame.
I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from saying things that make me sound old:
“I remember when the giant Ikea was a Topshop and we would go there to buy their waist belts and girl boxers.”
“When I was your age, there was a cafe which only served cereal.”
“We used to drink gin out of jam jars…”
Bottomless brunches and gourmet burgers were my favourite pastimes when I was 25. Now 34, I find myself pointing out posters on the underground for West End shows. “That looks like a bit of me.” And adverts for healthy letterbox meals. “Look, they do plant-based bolognese, darling.” But as well as feeling my age, I’m also excited to be in the thick of it again.
On Sunday, Roman and I went to see George Clooney’s new film, Jay Kelly, at the BFI London Film Festival. I gave it five stars. I highly recommend it.
After we headed to a gallery in Bermondsey called White Cube, it’s white and cube-like. Gunpowder and Abstraction was the exhibition. It was okay, but we were more intrigued by a couple who were wandering around. The man was in a top hat and tails, while the woman wore baggy jeans and a jumper. We were trying to guess if he had come from a wedding, was an actor still in costume, or was a ghost tour guide.
We went to a wine bar in Borough Market for a glass of rosé. There was another date behind us, dressed normally this time.
“I was in an argument with my sisters, and I got so angry that I went outside and punched a wall,” the man said, loud enough for me to hear and remember.
“Mm,” said the woman. Not impressed. (In the history of women, I don’t think the ‘punched-a-hole-in-the-wall’ story has ever been impressive.) They walked out of the wine bar, not hand in hand.
Roman and I left not long after, and on the tube back up north, we spoke about what a great Sunday it was and how nice it was that it was all on our doorstep.
I said to Roman, “Maybe I could write another poetry book… ‘London Town, You’re Not That Bad After All.’”
Joking, of course.
THE QUACK 