When you talk the talk about moving to a cosmopolis like London, you are expected to walk the walk by about a hundred percent more. And when you have spent the last three months living in Essex, which is slightly less cosmopolitan, walking the walk is like trying to climb the Everest with a blindfold on.
The first thing I noticed about finally waking up in London is that I was waking up to noise. And not the familiar noise of the landline ringing, or angry geese or any of the familiar Essex-y noises. I was waking up to eleven other people in various states of sleep and wake. I was waking up to busses, cars… I was waking up to Life with a capital L. Shit, dude. I’m living.
It’s weird to realize that.
It’s weird to get used to living in the city again. Here, you don’t know jack shit about your neighbours, but you are soon on first name terms with the guy from the off-licence who sells you The Guardian for a penny less.
Everything is like an alien entity. I braved the aisles of Sainsbury’s yesterday, soaking wet from the pissing rain. I had no idea where everything was and I could feel the rain in my shoes. But why does that matter? Why does it matter that I was rained out and cold? What difference does it make?
I am here.
I might be rained on,bumped against and possibly shat on by an angry pigeon, but I don’t give a shit.
This is where I want to be.
Someone very wise and lovely said to me that I should reclaim myself. And that’s what I’m going to do.
I’m getting a life, peepz. I’m building a routine, I’m jazzing it up and I’m going to sparkle my sexy ass off.
You know. Sparkle, sparkle and all that.