Titilating Times

You're dying to know aren't you?  Did 'the fit cobbler' live up to expectation?

Watching him fill out a receipt was almost too much to bear.  I do believe I may have dribbled just a little bit onto the slip of paper as he handed it to me.  I don't exactly remember much after that.  A chair, a table, some people in an office.  Something about a strike. Who needs public transport when you have 'the fit cobber'?

Sadly not all my clothes lend themselves to chemical solvent - so I will simply have to join the tussle to take other people's dry cleaning in.  I'm up against pros who have been at this game for a lot longer than me.  Wish me luck.

So, I'm having a hard time concentrating on work - I have to deliver a pitch to a journalist about technology in healthcare (yep, you should feel sorry) when my booth buddy turns to me and asks me whether I would like some Monkey Fudge. 

Don't ask.  Between the Fudge Monkey and The Fit Cobbler - it's going to be an interesting week.

The Fit Cobbler

Been a bona fide full-time working woman for a week and it’s all going so smoothly, I’m going to struggle to write about something interesting or at the very least controversial at this rate. What I do know is that when I exit the tube at Piccadilly every morning at about 10 to 9, I’m already smiling. A quick glance over my shoulder and there he is, Venus’s sweet cherubim son, Eros. And I smile some more. Then I turn into my street, in the very soul centre of Soho and frankly, I love the area so much, well I should really start carrying a change of underwear.

We had the office Christmas party this week…early I know but in a way a nice segue way into both December and my introduction to the company as a whole. And what a lovely bunch of people they are. Honestly. Yeah, boring I know.

Not so boring is the dry cleaners on Berwick Street…bear with me. I’d noticed a higher than average amount of dry cleaning being brought into the office and an unusually proactive willingness by some of the PR girls to either take or collect items to/from said establishment. I put it down to it being a disarmingly friendly place – my associate director makes me a tea every day. After the fifth day of girls coming round asking if anyone had any dry cleaning that needed picking up, I got curious.

What’s with this obsequiousness?

“Oh yeah”, says P, my booth buddy and a typical London wide-boy , “they all want an excuse to go see ‘the fit cobbler’.”

“The Fit Cobbler? That’s a neat name for a dry cleaners,” I say.

“Nah, that what the girls call the man who runs it. You should get involved mate. I don’t see it myself.”

I had to ask. “Who would play him in a film version?” That’s my way of picturing what someone really looks like.

“Ryan Phillippe, naked,” replied one of the Corporate PRs.  In case you're having trouble conjuring the image, here's a little 'aide memoire'.



Behave!

On Monday I’m taking two jackets in for a steam.

And one for luck:

Anatomy

Ok, so I fibbed a little bit about yesterday being like any other day despite it being my last Friday before the new job begins, because I did have a little, just a teeny tiny girls' night out. In Soho.   Literally a stone's throw away from where I'll be sitting in a couple of days for what I hope is a very long and successful time.

At about 4pm I developed a splitting headache while waiting for the number 328 bus to collect The Lish from daycare.  Of course I was sure it was the start of a brain aneurysm.  Having forgotten my good pain killers at home, and I do have a case full of the good stuff, I reluctantly popped a couple of shop's own brand ibuprofen (tic tacs really) and hoped for the best.  You want to catch pain before it hits the point of no return and I was skating on wafer thin ice. At this point, I wasn't exactly feeling the girls' night out.

Once at home I had to stop myself reaching for the jim jams.  Instead, with begrudging patience and the dedication of someone who knows they have a lot of ground to cover, the ritual of 'getting ready' began in earnest.  I'm sure conscript soldiers feel the same way about going to battle.

I started with the slap (employed every trick in the book), then the hair, the Spanks (body sculpting knickers - which feel like a tourniquet) and the heels - the metamorphosis was complete (or as The Silverback put it: you look like a cougar).

The headache continued to niggle so I popped one more pill, the good stuff this time and disappeared in a cloud of perfume. 

The girls were already at the meeting point by the time I arrived: a thai restaurant in St. Anne's Court, Soho.  It's a little alleyway where Marianne Faithful lived for 2 years as a homeless junkie.  Of course today it's so trendy, it's painful.   Watching us eat (I say 'eat') you'd be forgiven for thinking we'd just been released from a Japanese prisoner of war camp, we chit chatted about things that you really shouldn't talk about with your mouth full.

Next?  Why dancing of course!  What kind of a girls' night out doesn't involve dancing? not even a girls' night in skips the dancing. We headed to Freedom, one of Soho's oldest gay clubs.  Of course we went to a gay club.  When you've had to put on your make-up with a 4 year old velcroed to your lap, you don't need any more harassment.

I would like to thank Brazil at this point.  Soho's gay clubs salute you and your fine supply of the buffest gayest men on the planet.  Obscenely good movers too but I didn't see anyone covering their eyes.  This particular batch of harmless male tottie, we discovered, were air cabin crew for Air France.  BRAVO!

We knew it was midnight when the trannies arrived.  Huge in all the wrong places, they were. Still, 10 out of 10 for effort.  And then of course came the drunks who couldn't get in anywhere else.  Gay clubs are like the UK of Europe - they let anyone in.  And do you know what? I haven't laughed so hard in a long time.  You see, straight drunk men are terrible dancers except they all think they're in a boy band for the night.  In reality they look like they're spring cleaning.  All elbows and hyper-extension.  The pole dancing (oh yes, did I mention there were two dance poles in the middle of the dance floor...) the pole dancing was indescribable, we only hoped there was a doctor in the house ( a paramedic at least).

The rest is like a scene out of Desperately Seeking Susan. 

We found a cab relatively easy to say we were in Piccadilly Circus and it was 3 in the morning.  Slumped around the Statue of Eros in the famous glare of the electronic billboards that make Piccadilly so instantly recognisable, I noticed Eros looks more like a pigeon than a cherub. 

You know that headache? yeah, it's back.

What would you do if you only had one day?

I woke up this morning to the last weekday morning of a freelance lifestyle.  I'm not doing anything differently because that would feel a little over-dramatic.  I'm just starting a new job not dying.  And even if I were dying I still wouldn't do anything differently.  What exactly do you think would be achieved?  The pressure to fit into one day everything you think you now won't be able to do is a pointless waste of effort.  Stuff like this needs to be savoured, not crammed in.  That's what the afterlife is for.

Besides, I've done a lot of the stuff you might do if you were given 24 hours to live.  Really, I have.  I've visited every country I've ever wanted to visit. Bought outrageous stuff  (been outrageous) and generally treated myself (deservedly or not) and now all I want is a simple (and happy) life for me and those around me.  And let's face it, that isn't going to be achieved in a day.

So the best I can manage today is to go to the park with The Lish and then lunch at Mc D's.  That's what she wants - that is what she'll get - preceded by TV galore and her ice cream Play Doh factory which I have on more than one occasion pretended I couldn't find...it's THE messiest thing.  But today, no mess is too big...well that's not true but you get my drift.

I woke up this morning and thought about the first morning back in London back in March.  I remember exactly the mixture of elation, sadness and fear registering like a Hi-Fi's equalizer flashing green and red as the levels peaked with each emotion.  It seems like a lifetime ago; a lot has happened.  It did make me think about making sure lots of things continue to happen so that (keeping with the wistful subject of expiration) when I am on the proverbial 'deathbed' my life will feel like a proper sum total - none of this flashing past my eyes malarky. 

And so this afternoon, while The Lish enjoys a few hours at daycare with her lively gang of climbing frame war-mongers, I will be doing nothing more than reading the epic that is The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets' Nest with a regular skinny latte (on the comfy seats) and that will do nicely. 

I may even purchase a lottery ticket and if I win, everyday will feel like 'the last day'.

Looking after Number 1

It was as feared, 'A' had ulterior motives for inviting me out for a coffee and as flattering as it is to an old bird (with a kid) to be pursued so sincerely by a mere boy, I really can't entertain the notion of defecting to the flat next door.  One has to question the mental state of this unassuming young man.  At least he got the chance to get it off his chest and I got a free lunch.  I don't think rejection gets any more diplomatic than this and I get to keep custody of the kitchen.

If I were to allow myself the indulgence of a totally unrealistic fantasy, I could very well argue that I've become a sort of Patti Boyd in a George Harrison - Eric Clapton love sandwich.  Except instead of being driven to write beautiful rock ballads to make me stay, The Silverback (George in this scenario) would most likely put together an incentive plan to ensure a quick and problem-free handover before disappearing to The Tundra without so much as a forwarding address.

It's been a week for odd encounters.  Take last night for example: I was on my way to meet friends in Islington when out of nowhere a woman sobbing uncontrollably approached me as I stepped out of my building.  My immediate reaction was to go into Jodie Foster mode (as Clarisse in Silence of the Lambs).  I quickly surveille the area for signs of a set up and go all FBI on the poor woman.  More real than the tears was the raw agony etched on her face.  She was so upset, I couldn't make out what she was trying to tell me.  With my back against the wall (and in my mind a .22 calibre in my hand) I get her to calm down. 

Finally she was able to explain that she'd just been told she had breast cancer and on telling her long-time partner and father of her son, he had responded by confessing a 2 year affair which meant he would not be sticking around for the hard part.  This made me mad.  It doesn't take much when it comes to stories about men being shits and I stood in disbelief as she then went on to explain how she'd sacrificed many years of her life to help this man navigate through a drug and bi-polar problem. 

I gave the names of two cancer charities.  I really wish her well.  They say breast cancer is a martyr's disease - well in the case of this lady, tis true.

As I hurried along, now woefully late to meet my friends, I started to think about the whole 'martyr' thing especially with regards going back to work.  I could let myself feel really guilty about taking the office job which essentially means someone else will be doing the school runs for me going forward or I can just accept that the (right) office job makes me happy.  You can call this rationalisation but I believe that in following my heart, I'm teaching The Lish to be dependent on herself and herself alone in the pursuit of happiness and freedom because at the end of that day no-one can live your life for you.

But most of all, I'd hate my child to end up a martyr to anyone or anything.  No sir.

Everybody needs good neighbours

So 'A' from across the way - you remember The Silverback's kitchen window buddy?  Him? well, he has progressed the 'relationship' from scribbled notes pressed to the window pane with the urgency of someone communicating from their 'Panic Room', to something altogether more bold: he's asked me out for a coffee.  Me. Thanks.  Still, at least I'm not being asked UP for coffee or OVER for a coffee. 

OUT for coffee conjures up a more sincere motivation, right?  The Silverback generously concurs that it's the neighbourly thing to do.  Course he would, he doesn't have to go.

I have to say I deliberated,  knowing really that I had only one option.  And, of course, I blame The Silverback.  Who in their right mind plays imaginary cricket with a topless stranger leaning over a steaming sinkful of dishes?  Who then goes on to wave at this stranger, on a daily basis! with the enthusiasm of a child (with ADHD) who's just discovered his parent's secret stash of After Eight Mints.  Hint: It wasn't me.

And yet.

So, tomorrow I'm going OUT for coffee with A.  I have to or else it's bye bye to ever being to use the kitchen again.  And let's face it, eating is one of the few remaining untrimmed pleasures left to an old bird with a kid like me.

Unless....who do I know in the curtain-making business?

Apples

Do you like apples?

Well, after one of the most demoralising job-hunting experiences in which prospective employers went out of their way to make me feel like nothing more than an old bird with a kid, I have bagged a rather lovely role at a rather shit hot PR agency.

How do you like them apples?

I don't mean to brag, but I had to turn another role down in the interim. Ok,  I guess I am bragging. 

It's odd how quickly something happens when it's right. It took 4 days in which time I squeezed two interviews and a writing test in.  Some companies can't manage this in a month. This next role marks the start of a new professional phase for me.  One where I'm in the driving seat, going at the right speed, buckled in for a coast to coast road trip with all my hopes and dreams (career-wise) strapped into the passenger seat. 

Yoga remains part of this journey - the supporting role, the safety belt in fact but relegated to weekends and evenings.  It's lovely and wonderful and fluffy and life-affirming but my landlord prefers cash. Not to mention the sparkly stores on Oxford Street filled with fripperies that have The Lish's name on them.

In a moment of deluded festive vacuity, I decided to take The Lish into town today to see the Christmas Lights and yes, why not the Christmas Windows.  I have very fond memories of these as a child.  My mum would take me to see the Selfridges windows and I would delight in their magic. 

Oxford Street Christmas Lights 2010

The Lish came with a blank mental list on which she was to note down all the things we were to ask Santa for: everything - basically.

Just as well I'm working again.

Giggedy Giggedy BOO!

As you may or may not know, I couldn’t get out of Canada fast enough when the time finally came to leave. I have, as you most definitely know never looked back and in fact cannot imagine a time in the near future when I will find enough resolve to return even for a visit. I think it’s called post traumatic shock. Not all was wasted; I brought a couple of good things back – a certification in Yoga and a healthy disregard for all things cold. Halloween however is another exception. North Americans know Halloween and unbeknownst to me, the costume tsunami that it is, you can’t help but be affected by it. This year, my first Halloween back in London, I found myself missing the effort Canucks go to.

Londoners are too stressed, too frightened and too multi-cultural for a secularised scream fest like Halloween to flourish. If you’re lucky you can go spend stupid money at a club and if you are really lucky some generous and warm heart soul will have a little party in their kitchen.

Nor will you easily find any kitschy decoration adorning house fronts here. Not so much as a pumpkin on the door step, nothing. I tell a lie, The Lish and I saw a couple of pumpkins that looked like they’d been carved by the criminally insane precariously perched on impossibly narrow window ledges. The brave who go Trick or Treating usually find people, if they do deign to open the door to you will promptly slam it in your face annoyed at having forgotten what date it is.  Welcome to London.

I am one of those lucky people who knew a generous and kind-hearted soul having a party. I’ve learned never to shun the hand of friendship and of course, we all three of us went the extra mile for it – taking, if you will, a very Canadian approach to the whole thing; planning costumes and holding dress rehearsals.

At the party I noticed another cultural difference. Halloween in the UK is about the fear factor (however you want to slice it. Some make it funny, others need to be institutionalised) but to a Canuck, anything goes. So while my British friends came as witches and vampires, The Silverback went as Stewey (Family Guy) , The Lish went as a traditonal bride (and so it begins), while I went as Amy Winehouse. So I guess, there is one other Canadian thing I’ve retained. Everyone was baffled by our eclectic choices. It comes down to this I guess, the British like to play by the rules (for the most part) so who’s boring now?

Another thing about the Brits is that they are far more comfortable celebrating historical events. See, for us here more important than Halloween is Bonfire Night (5th November) which celebrates the foiling of Guy Fawkes's attempt to blow up the houses of Parliament – London’s first religious terrorist I suppose. And on the 5th of November, would you like to know what this nation of civilised bowler hat wearing, anti-extremist does? It burns an effigy of Guy after letting off hundreds of coloured explosives.

I rest my case.