Saying Goodbye: Bitesize London

When I first moved to London six years ago, I was prepared for city living to leave me cold. Or flat, like the headless beer I'd been warned about. I love home in Yorkshire. I love having a large, but close, extended family within easy reach, a big group of friends who’ve never lost touch, and a beautiful landscape that isn’t completely cut off from civilisation. By civilisation I mean more places to drink and dance.

I’ve only come to appreciate over the past few years how lucky I am to have had the childhood I had. However, career opportunities and a handsome Southerner beckoned. It took me six years to make the most of London life, and 2013 so far has been full of it – celebrating K’s 30^th at Sushi Tetsu, watching an open air play in Regent’s Park, rousing a friend from the depths of a serious hangover for a Sunday showing of The Dark Crystal at the BFI, managing to finally arrange a date with said friend and another good pal to eat birthday bone marrow at St John’s.

Then our background plan to live in another country at some point started to actually take shape, and it dawned on both of us that the life we’d been lucky enough to enjoy for a while was about to be fully remodelled on a Michael Jackson’s face kind of scale.

The five weeks between handing our notice in and getting on the plane to China were a blur of fun seeing as many friends as possible – and a pretty good snapshot of what we’re sad to leave behind. My bitesize rundown doesn’t include all my favourite places, but does include cheap eats, expensive cocktails and a tattoo in Soho – sounds like a good London night out to me.

Review: My Week With Marilyn

Disney starlet Miley Cyrus, stung by anonymous online comments saying she'd gained weight, responded by posting a picture of Marilyn Monroe on her Twitter account with the caption: 'Proof that you can be adored by thousands of men even when your thighs touch.'

Putting aside doubts that 19-year-old Miley's thighs are approaching anything like Monroe's proportions (plus the pointlessness of responding to vile Twitter trolls wanting a public rise out of a celebrity, and the possible suggestion that male admiration is the only goal) it's not hard to see why she chose the image.

Watching My Week With Marilyn a few days ago, I tried to call up my prior knowledge of the subject. I took part in a production of Some Like It Hot at university, but I didn't play Monroe's part. I played Generic Bimbo No 3, and frolicked round the stage in a nightie with my boobs hoiked up to my chin. Not very insightful, or warm.

The sum of what I know is a caricatured image, a blonde poster icon with red lips and a clinging swimsuit, singing breathily. A Warhol picture. An idea held up far and wide, all waist and breasts and pout and leg, plus some sort of tragic ending involving pills and possibly a Kennedy.

Amy's List of Regrets: Part One

So there we were, the glamour of the local registry office all around us, waiting to give notice of our intention to marry. Palms sweating, we nervously grinned through our (separate) interviews to check we weren't already married and all that. Ridiculous to worry I know - all they did was ask me his name, my dad's job, and whether my intended was already related to me (I know I come from fairly near Dewsbury, but give me some credit). 

Still, having to answer any kind of formal question fills me with dread, especially the most straightforward ones. At the airport, the bored, usually monotone query "Did you pack your bag yourself?" makes me blink uncontrollably. I think I just exude an air of guilt. My parents still think I stole eight bags of Iced Gems from the kitchen cupboard in 1991 just because I couldn't stop giggling when they waved the empty multipack around accusingly. I did a lot of binge-eating as a kid, but I swear on anyone's life that it wasn't me.

It made me wonder how bigamists manage to get through so many of these interviews, and how the hell someone would get themselves in that situation. So (tenuous link alert) I started thinking about my own regrets. Just minor ones, bloody annoying niggles. Nothing like "I wish I'd never lied about being married before or never dropped those government documents in a bin in a public place or murdered that prostitute," but the ones that when you think about them, you do a little 'grrr' because they're just so irritating. So here are a couple of mine for your enjoyment.

My name is Amy and I can't drive

I’m sighing loudly and crossing my legs as yet another service station shrinks into the distance behind us, and my other half is staring pointedly forward, mouth set. This is a sensible direction to stare given he’s driving us up the M1, but I know his grimace is also because he’s gearing up to utter the full stop to all of our motorway conversations. Which goes something like this: “When you drive, as many loo breaks as you desire. Until then...”

I could have been motoring to toilet freedom, to unlimited possibility, to the shops, for 11 years now. I got as far as collecting the provisional license form on my 17^th birthday, and left it in the pub. My name is Amy. I’m 28, and I can’t drive. I’d ask for a group hug, but I think I might be the only one.

How has this happened? At 17, living at home, I was happy to cope with one bus an hour if it meant I could use the lesson fee for more pressing matters - like booze to drink in club queues while waiting to get turned away for looking 12. At university, I was predictably skint and then I picked up the boy, moved to London and took the tube every day. I cope.

But now and then, while arranging festival travel with friends, or knocking over small children on the bus with my Tesco bags, suspecting a Fiat-driving youth is preparing to shout, “Bus stop w****r!” I get a twinge that I haven’t quite caught up. I'm drifting towards the rest of adulthood with a mortgage, a fiancé, a loosely termed 'career', but I am still at the mercy of unreliable public transport and expensive taxis.

If nothing else, it loses me valuable argument ground. Much in the way I whine, “You don’t understand!” to non-smokers who tut at my on-off habit, my non-driving status means I’m unable to comment on anyone’s skill or lack of. Even I know you shouldn’t sit in the middle lane assuming it’s the ‘medium’ between fast and inside, but, y’know, they’re giving me a lift.

Given I refuse to wash our heavy casserole dish as it’s “too awkward”, it’s fair to say I am scared of things that are a bit hard. Ever contrary though, things that are really hard, I seem to throw myself at with abandon. Terrified, I quit a job I hated giving myself a month to find something else, and it worked. I ended a long term relationship and jumped into a new one a week later, and that worked too. Apparently, I am a girl of extremes. I can throw a steady income down the drain, but I cannot scrub an iron pan.

It’s getting increasingly difficult to imagine myself behind the wheel as time passes, and every journey with the boy carries an unspoken accusation of laziness. But much like the giving up smoking thing, and the pile of washing up, I continually bleat, ‘I will at some point, honest!’ Erm, but not now - we have a wedding to save for. That would just be silly.

I got back tonight, and I couldn't find any Friends

I'll start with a disclaimer, nay, a warning. If you do not like long-running, award-winning, jolly American sitcom Friends or have not ever watched it, this blog post may not have much in it for you. This blog is not going to be earthshattering, important, or even well written. It's just about Friends.

Screw the journo thing of doing a pithy bit of context for the uninitiated. Friends has been on one channel or another four times a day your entire life. If you ain't a fan now, I can't change you. And even if I could, I probably wouldn't because quite frankly, we number many and we're just fine. 

Plus there's just too damned much to explain. I can say "In LONDON!" incredulously whenever I want, and the boy, the best friend and occasionally the mother (if she's taken her clarity meds) will understand the reference. Sometimes just saying any word in the same tone as "In LONDON!" works. This post may run along those lines. You might think something like, "Oh, I didn't realise the irritating precocious child actor talking to Joey in Chandler and Monica's new house was Dakota Fanning" and that's okay. Saying, "Oh, was Brad Pitt in it once then?" means you should probably stop reading now. 

So let's crack on. I am sad Friends will no longer be on free telly at a time when nothing much else is on. That when I leave work or work-related things before 10pm, there is no longer a back-up to stick on in the background as I throw myself on the sofa and force the boy to make dinner. I am sad that it will no longer be the main reason I would ever watch T4 and thus pretend to be young and hip. So I'm just going to talk it out for a bit, okay? 

Polpetto: Once Upon a Balmy Summers' Eve

I've had one glass of (overpriced) red wine, and he's had a beer while we watched an intense film at a cinema on Shaftesbury Avenue. It's past 9pm. We're on the hunt for food.

Sniffing, memory-squeezing, wandering. Grub-finding in Soho is harder than it looks sometimes. It's 9.20pm and we're dangerously close to whining, "But we're in Soho! The centre of Lahndahn! The world at our fingertips!" Too much choice and not enough.

No matter, nights like these are what Polpetto are made for. We half-run to The French House. I've been before for work schmoozes (the nice kind where I go somewhere I like rather than the kind where I do any actual work) so I know you cannot book, which makes it perfect for a relaxed, drawn out, accidentally-drink-quite-a-lot-before-you-eat evening.

"Sit down boy, I will handle this one". I install him at the bar and nip upstairs to give the waiter my mobile number. This is so he can ring me when a table is free - I am not a hussy.

You cannot have a pint while waiting downstairs in the French House, however much you cry. And do not make the mistake of assuming the barmaid merely did not hear you ask for a pint and say it louder. They do NOT serve pints, only halves. "I saw Paloma Faith in here once," I tell him again.

He has a half of something. I have a cider, in a glass that looks bigger than a half. It is a weeknight and it is busy, we are lucky to find our seats. It is lovely where we are sat, the big windows are open on to the street, the pub feels cosy behind us. We finish our drinks, argue briefly about me going for a cigarette, then my phone is ringing.

Upstairs, there's room for maybe 25, 30 covers. The tables are very close together, and it feels a little like sitting in someone's attic. Retro, dusty-but-not-really, dimly lit. Previously, I've landed tables next to the windows, looking out at a flag moving lazily beneath, eating lovely food and supping wine. Those tables say 'Yeah man, I live in London and eat here and this is what I do'. This time, we are at a table that says nothing, because you cannot hear it over the conversations of those sat an inch away from you on either side. This is not a problem when you are fuzzily drunk. Sir, a bottle of house red please and thank you.

The menus are the place mats. We peruse the array of Italian small plates. I, having downed a little more wine, am very enthusiastic about the courgette fries. We order a few more dishes too - sweetbread meatballs, a Devon crab dish, something with squid. The food comes as and when it's ready, and I like to eat like this. It's relaxing.

The first two come extremely quickly. Joy! He says the meatballs are over-seasoned. I don't want to concur because this is my recommendation and I like it, but they are. He begins to mumble misgivings about the place being too cool for school. I bat them away and pour more wine.

The two dishes are long gone, and we wait. The wine is disappearing fast. We are deep in alcohol-tinged conversation.

"Oh my god, are you having a little drunk cry? You are tiddled. You're panini-ed!"
"No!" Sniff. "I feel fat."
"I feel you've had too much to drink."
"You should never say that to a lady!"
"What? That's not some well known proverb or saying!"
"Shut up! Shall we have dessert?"
"Stop telling me to shut up, you drunken wench."

We realise our other dishes have not materialised. The waiter comes over and asks if we want the bill, a little surprised we should choose to eat so little. We ask for the rest of what we ordered, then the wine is gone, so we finish our meal with water. It is fine, (except the courgette fries, which are fantastic) and the waiter is nice enough not to mention my drunk face. 

We fall back into the outside world. "Cocktails!" I cry. "No" he says. "You're battered. Not a good idea." But it is too late - the cloud has lifted and I am happy drunk on a summers' eve with no work tomorrow. 

We stumble to Café Boheme two minutes away. We have a cocktail each. I choose the first fizzy one I see. Now he's finished his gin martini, he is well on his way too. "Listen, seriously why do you never do the washing up? Seriously?" I order another cocktail for myself, and a Bloody Mary with gin for him and go for another cigarette. I come back in and he's forgotten about the housework and the barman is smiling at us. We grin inanely back and leave for the tube, boozy and full.

Polpetto, upstairs at The French House, 49 Dean Street, London (approx. £50 dinner for two with wine)

Café Boheme, 13 Old Compton Street, London

Weddings: when a yes is just a no in a fancy hat

If you know me in real life, you'll know that I spent many years working in Boots. Cut me and I bleed Advantage Card points (the best value loyalty card on the High Street, FACT). And I took a massive amount of pride in providing good service with a smile, even when a man dropped his pants in the baby department and tried to put on a pair of Huggies.

Thus my hackles are raised when people complain about bad customer service, because a lot of the time, they're not distinguishing between being treated badly and simply an outcome they didn't want. An example of the latter would be me explaining why it's not my fault they couldn't buy a golden unicorn with their out-of-date gift voucher at 9pm on Christmas Eve. An example of the former would be me explaining while going 'DUURRRRRRRR' and leaning over the counter to tap their temples.

BUT it also means I know that providing a good consumer experience is really, truly simple - just listen and try. So, somewhat uncomfortably I am reporting that our shallow toe-dip into wedding planning waters has disappointed us both.

Now, please believe me when I say that I'm not writing this under the impression that the finer details of my nuptials are incredibly interesting to others. I'm a little bored myself. I just assumed that when we're potentially spending the most money we'll probably ever spend on one fleeting experience (student loan to alcohol ratio aside) we could expect good, even great service. 

Um. No. After explaining that we have homebrew and local foodstuffs we'd love to include, the first venue I contacted assured me that they were "very flexible with the food and drink" but "we only work with our catering team and homebrew can only be offered at certain times during the day". Right. The email went on to say "the entertainment in the evening is our marquee DJ only" . Truly, the king of flexibility.

Another manager spent a day talking to me and the boy about spending thousands of pounds hiring his venue - again, plus compulsory catering that came with - and managed to spell the boy's name wrong. Fair enough, nearly-husband does have one of them confusing foreign names like, but it was a response to an email in which I'd written it about five times. With my confidence in the attention to detail knocked, his colleague then forwarded a quote ignoring the budget we'd spoken about, but including a £420 charge for 'linen'. Linen! For £420 I want seventeen almost blind monks sewing the hair of angels into the bastard things. Why the effin jeff would I give this man all our money?

You may have noticed I have quietly dropped the groom from the proceedings, and that's because I'm slowly realising this mob of sugar-coated con artists do the same. Poor betrothed - he is elbowed to one side as these people whisper in my ear about organza bows on each chair for £5 a go. Do I have to explain that there are two of us getting wed, that it is not all about me? It is quite a lot about me obviously, but a little bit about the groom as well. So please, stop trying to look at me behind his back when we both said no to the ice sculpture.

You all want so badly to create my DREAM DAY, don't you? Unparalleled flexibility to make the day exactly the way I want it. Then why is it that the answer to nearly every question I've asked so far has been "No" or "Yes, but..." which is just a no wearing a fancy hat. In fact, the only question to which anyone has replied in the affirmative has been, "Are you going to bankrupt us to achieve the wedding of someone else's dreams?"

Oh, don't I want to be a princess? Don't I know I'll only do it once, and who doesn't need silver almonds and uplighters and draping and twenty credit cards to pay for it all? Well yes then, you creepy, creepy people. I will agree - this is a once in a lifetime day celebrating me and himself. And guess what? If either of us thought it was a good idea to spend £400 on tablecloths, I don't think we'd be tripping down that aisle.