Blame it on that crazy loon Harold Camping and his doomsday predictions, but today, as I rode the tube to a friend's housewarming party, I thought to myself, "what would I do if the world were to suddenly be coming to an end?" As it was going on 9pm GMT and no earthquakes or rapturing had taken place as far as I could tell, the moment had clearly passed, but it's still a worthy question.
I didn't have to think twice about the answer. There really wasn't any hesitation. If the world were coming to an end in a matter of mere hours, there is only one thing I would want to be doing: having sex. I know I'm not alone in that sort of thinking.
As I was on the tube, there was really only one thing to do: decide who in the carriage I would shag if in fact doomsday were coming. The carriage wasn't particularly full, a welcome respite considering what seems like 90% of London lives on my tube line. It is packed all. the. time. Even at 10pm on a Tuesday evening. Rush hour is so bad my flatmate Nigel gets to work an entire hour early everyday just to avoid it, and the one time I actually had to take it during the morning rush (thank goodness for no morning classes), I was squished in like a sardine into the stuffy carriage, and it didn't take long before my bangs were sticking to my forehead and my dress sticking to my body, and yes, eventually the river of sweat did begin to flow south between my breasts. Lovely start to the day. But on this Friday evening heading into the city, the carriage was not quite half full, and there were a decent number of men on it.
I scanned the options. The two very young men sitting next to me looked to be more of the frat boy crowd and most likely homosexual, whether they knew it or not. Perhaps the end of the world would give them the liberation to finally be able to shag each other. I ruled out the man sitting across from me not because he was bad looking (which he wasn't), but because he had just consumed a box of greasy fried chicken and chips, straight out of the box, while it sat directly on the floor of the tube. Gross.
Then my eyes landed on the man two seats away from greasy chicken and chips man. Not bad. Not bad at all. We might have a winner- until I noticed that underneath his jacket was what appeared to be a denim shirt, a felony in the ranks of crimes against fashion. I surveyed my other options. To my left, I had a man wearing what appeared to be a 1950s style jock sweater, but further down the carriage there was a man who looked relatively normal, but he got off before I could see what type of shirt he was wearing.
I decided to go back to my original cute fashion criminal when a man who looked like he could be the kid from Billy Elliot 10 years later sat down directly across from me. (Wait, he really could have been the kid from Billy Elliot, as it is 10 years later!) He too was wearing a denim shirt. For crying out loud, I thought London was supposed to be one of the fashion capitals of the world?! And here I have two denim shirts and a jock sweater in one half full carriage?!
I looked more closely at the original Denim Shirt Guy and realized that his denim shirt appeared to be a faux denim shirt. Faux denim? Is that really necessary? Is there a Save The Denim foundation I didn't know about that pickets denim fashion shows, then dumps red paint on the offending denim-wearers while screaming Murderer! Then I reminded myself that in this hypothetical scenario, this is doomsday we're talking about. Fuck it, if the end of the world is barreling down the underground, I will shag the guy in the (possibly faux) denim shirt. He has nice lips.
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Showing posts with label London. Show all posts
Friday, October 21, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Who wears short shorts?
"Young lady, you've got the nicest legs in all of London."
At first it startled me, the man's voice coming out of the utility truck. He was eating a sandwich in the passenger seat (even though he was sitting on what I still think of as the driver's side) and, well, staring at my legs. Did I slap him? Did I make a dirty face and walk off in a huff about the indignity of being ogled liked a piece of meat.
Of course not. I smiled and said thank you. The English are just so damn polite, even when they're catcalling, it's hard to do anything but. It's not as if he said "Fancy a shag?", he just told me I had the nicest legs in all of London. And he seemed to be a pretty good authority on the situation. (I'm actually quite proud of my legs, and in this day and age women can admit when they've got it going on, right?)
I've been settling into The Life of a Londoner quite nicely, I think. I haven't been hit by a double-decker bus coming from the direction I'm not used to, people ask me for directions (and are surprised by my accent), I get a lot of reading done on the Tube, and I haven't embarrassed myself too badly by saying the wrong word or pointing out someone's fanny pack. (Note: Fanny = Vagina in British) However, I'm still getting hung up on pants. To me, pants are worn over your underwear. To the British, pants are worn under your trousers. Underwear. So if I tell someone I really like their pants, I'm bound to get an odd look. This is something I really must work on.
But most importantly, I've got friends! Obviously I've got Fen, but I'm filling up my phone contact list quite nicely with other students, just moved to London, and a few who are also On The Prowl. We have big plans to go out, meet men, have fun, and experience this awesome city. The Fun begins tomorrow. Grayer, now would be a good time to give me a Night Out Scavenger Hunt...
At first it startled me, the man's voice coming out of the utility truck. He was eating a sandwich in the passenger seat (even though he was sitting on what I still think of as the driver's side) and, well, staring at my legs. Did I slap him? Did I make a dirty face and walk off in a huff about the indignity of being ogled liked a piece of meat.
Of course not. I smiled and said thank you. The English are just so damn polite, even when they're catcalling, it's hard to do anything but. It's not as if he said "Fancy a shag?", he just told me I had the nicest legs in all of London. And he seemed to be a pretty good authority on the situation. (I'm actually quite proud of my legs, and in this day and age women can admit when they've got it going on, right?)
I've been settling into The Life of a Londoner quite nicely, I think. I haven't been hit by a double-decker bus coming from the direction I'm not used to, people ask me for directions (and are surprised by my accent), I get a lot of reading done on the Tube, and I haven't embarrassed myself too badly by saying the wrong word or pointing out someone's fanny pack. (Note: Fanny = Vagina in British) However, I'm still getting hung up on pants. To me, pants are worn over your underwear. To the British, pants are worn under your trousers. Underwear. So if I tell someone I really like their pants, I'm bound to get an odd look. This is something I really must work on.
But most importantly, I've got friends! Obviously I've got Fen, but I'm filling up my phone contact list quite nicely with other students, just moved to London, and a few who are also On The Prowl. We have big plans to go out, meet men, have fun, and experience this awesome city. The Fun begins tomorrow. Grayer, now would be a good time to give me a Night Out Scavenger Hunt...
Saturday, October 8, 2011
The One
The search is over. I've finally found The One.
It's just like everyone says, when it's right, you just know. We're going to live happily ever after, I just know it.
What, you think I'm talking about a man? Don't be silly, I'm talking about finally finding a flat, but the means to get there are pretty much the same.
Just like you look for a man online, you look for a flat online. You search for things in your age range or your price range, look for something geographically desirable, and when you actually go to see it/meet him in person, you just hope that the picture provided doesn't let you down. When you do actually meet, you have to put your best foot forward. Be friendly, smile a lot, and let them know how much better their lives will be with you in it. Then, once the first meeting/date is over, you have to let them know that you're definitely interested, but you can't appear needy. No one likes needy.
And after you let them know you're interested, you wait by the phone. And wait, and wait, and wait. When the phone never rings, or you get an email letting you know it's bad news, you just feel rejected. The more rejections I got, the more I kept wondering, why doesn't anyone want to live with me?! I'm delightful!
Then on Monday, I found The One. I had had another viewing first that evening, one of those where the photos totally lied. I saw a picture of a spacious, bright room, only to be standing in a tiny room while the landlord explained that the wrong photos were put onto the website by no fault of his own. Yeah, right. I headed to my second viewing with higher hopes, since the advert said they were looking for someone who thinks kerfuffle is a great word, so in my response I used kerfuffle in a sentence. I was pretty sure I was a front-runner before I even arrived.
True to the cliche, when you know, you know. Yes, the furniture is a bit shabby and the kitchen features The Original Microwave, but the room is big and bright, and the flatmates are lovely. We hit it off right away. An hour after I left, my phone finally rang, telling me the flatmates loved me. I knew someone would eventually!
I moved out of Fen's bedroom and into my new place today. As much as I love Fen, it was time to get out of her bed. She never wants to cuddle.
The new place isn't without its hiccups, most notably the fact that I have a king-sized bed, which is most impressive considering several of the rooms I looked at were most definitely smaller than a king-sized bed, but it means finding bedding is tougher and more expensive. Having a large bed is not the worst problem to have. Now all I need to do is find a man to put in it.
It's just like everyone says, when it's right, you just know. We're going to live happily ever after, I just know it.
What, you think I'm talking about a man? Don't be silly, I'm talking about finally finding a flat, but the means to get there are pretty much the same.
Just like you look for a man online, you look for a flat online. You search for things in your age range or your price range, look for something geographically desirable, and when you actually go to see it/meet him in person, you just hope that the picture provided doesn't let you down. When you do actually meet, you have to put your best foot forward. Be friendly, smile a lot, and let them know how much better their lives will be with you in it. Then, once the first meeting/date is over, you have to let them know that you're definitely interested, but you can't appear needy. No one likes needy.
And after you let them know you're interested, you wait by the phone. And wait, and wait, and wait. When the phone never rings, or you get an email letting you know it's bad news, you just feel rejected. The more rejections I got, the more I kept wondering, why doesn't anyone want to live with me?! I'm delightful!
Then on Monday, I found The One. I had had another viewing first that evening, one of those where the photos totally lied. I saw a picture of a spacious, bright room, only to be standing in a tiny room while the landlord explained that the wrong photos were put onto the website by no fault of his own. Yeah, right. I headed to my second viewing with higher hopes, since the advert said they were looking for someone who thinks kerfuffle is a great word, so in my response I used kerfuffle in a sentence. I was pretty sure I was a front-runner before I even arrived.
True to the cliche, when you know, you know. Yes, the furniture is a bit shabby and the kitchen features The Original Microwave, but the room is big and bright, and the flatmates are lovely. We hit it off right away. An hour after I left, my phone finally rang, telling me the flatmates loved me. I knew someone would eventually!
I moved out of Fen's bedroom and into my new place today. As much as I love Fen, it was time to get out of her bed. She never wants to cuddle.
The new place isn't without its hiccups, most notably the fact that I have a king-sized bed, which is most impressive considering several of the rooms I looked at were most definitely smaller than a king-sized bed, but it means finding bedding is tougher and more expensive. Having a large bed is not the worst problem to have. Now all I need to do is find a man to put in it.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
500 Posts! (and some mindless blogging)
I was going to log on and blog about something mindless when I was alerted to the fact that this is our 500th Post - eek!! Congrats all.
Now, on to mindless blogging.
Vi: "Are you posting?" (sounds incredulous)
Fen: "You don't need to sound so surprised." (sounds indignant).
Yes, that's right everyone, Vi and Fen are now having real life, real time conversations. It's pretty awesome. (And sorry I haven't blogged in awhile. I've been busy sharing a bed with Vi and talking about Microsoft Office in my sleep).
Vi being here has been interesting for me. Mainly because it's helped me realise what expressions / sayings are British English and what are American English. (I'm an Anglo American hybrid with the interesting accent to prove it). I use a lot of British English sayings and let me tell you, it's difficult thinking of the 'translation' which is so frustrating because we speak the same language. Hard to believe I was once an English teacher.
Secondly, I have become somewhat of a wing woman (one word or two?) since Vi's arrival. This my friends has been somewhat of a new experience for me. I was her wingwoman (I think it's one word) when we went our for her birthday drinks and the cute (but useless British guy) came over to talk to her with his somewhat intense South African friend - guess who had to talk to the somewhat intense South African friend? I've been on the Great London Flat Hunt with her, escorting her to meet potential roommates and I even went Speed Flatmating with her, where I felt like a parent encouraging their child to go make friends. In short, I feel I have achieve wingwoman status. It feels pretty good.
To sum up: some of the best things about Vi being in the same city include:
- being able to text each other
- being able to go for cocktails (Although now she drinks beer. The cute neighbour has a lot to answer for. Did Carrie and Charlotte go out for a pint? No.)
- she cooks for me
- we can watch Glee together
and finally...
Having someone to laugh with over:
- spotted dick
- Cockfosters
- Cock Pond
Yes, we really are that mature.
Now, on to mindless blogging.
Vi: "Are you posting?" (sounds incredulous)
Fen: "You don't need to sound so surprised." (sounds indignant).
Yes, that's right everyone, Vi and Fen are now having real life, real time conversations. It's pretty awesome. (And sorry I haven't blogged in awhile. I've been busy sharing a bed with Vi and talking about Microsoft Office in my sleep).
Vi being here has been interesting for me. Mainly because it's helped me realise what expressions / sayings are British English and what are American English. (I'm an Anglo American hybrid with the interesting accent to prove it). I use a lot of British English sayings and let me tell you, it's difficult thinking of the 'translation' which is so frustrating because we speak the same language. Hard to believe I was once an English teacher.
Secondly, I have become somewhat of a wing woman (one word or two?) since Vi's arrival. This my friends has been somewhat of a new experience for me. I was her wingwoman (I think it's one word) when we went our for her birthday drinks and the cute (but useless British guy) came over to talk to her with his somewhat intense South African friend - guess who had to talk to the somewhat intense South African friend? I've been on the Great London Flat Hunt with her, escorting her to meet potential roommates and I even went Speed Flatmating with her, where I felt like a parent encouraging their child to go make friends. In short, I feel I have achieve wingwoman status. It feels pretty good.
To sum up: some of the best things about Vi being in the same city include:
- being able to text each other
- being able to go for cocktails (Although now she drinks beer. The cute neighbour has a lot to answer for. Did Carrie and Charlotte go out for a pint? No.)
- she cooks for me
- we can watch Glee together
and finally...
Having someone to laugh with over:
- spotted dick
- Cockfosters
- Cock Pond
Yes, we really are that mature.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
London Update
Things got off to a wee bit of a rocky start when my arrival was delayed, oh, about 12 hours. Thanks to some crummy weather, I missed my connection and had to spend the night in the airport. I used to think that spending the night in an airport by yourself is one of the loneliest experiences a person could have- until I spent the night alone in a bus station, which was much, much worse. Therefore, the spending the night in the airport just didn't seem so bad. Besides, there were enough people in my situation that I didn't feel so alone, yet not too many that it was noisy and crowded. Of course, I still didn't manage to get any sleep, despite the seats without armrests so I could actually lay down, but at least there was wifi so I could watch things on netflix, which made the time pass much faster. Unfortunately, Fen had to go to work instead of picking me up and spending the day with me. Sorry, Fen.
When I finally arrived in London, I was a bit nervous about customs. The visa process was extremely stressful, and I was still worried they wouldn't let me in the country despite it all. Turns out, customs was the easy part. The tricky part was dealing with my luggage.
I had managed to get all the important things in my bags, after a lot of vacuum sealing and sitting on my suitcases in order to zip them up. As soon as I arrived in baggage claim, I grabbed a luggage cart. I collected my two suitcases, both weighing in at just a smidge under the 50 pound limit. Lifting them onto the cart, however, was not as easy as it may sound. Mostly because those carts have wheels, and therefore they like to move. So whenever I would raise the bag up, it would hit the cart, because I'm not strong enough to lift a heavy bag much higher than the cart itself, and the cart would start to roll away, while I went chasing after it holding a heavy suitcase chest high. Eventually, I managed to wrangle the cart and sloppily threw my last bag on top of the others and walked through to international arrivals where Fen was waiting for me.
Then came the trials of getting all that luggage through public transport to Fen's flat. Luckily people were nice enough to offer to help us when the elevator-er, excuse me, the lift- wasn't working and we were just kind of staring at the stares wondering how on earth we were going to get all that luggage to the top. Same when we got on and off the bus, and finally, finally, we arrived at Fen's flat, where I fell into such a hard, drug-induced sleep that I actually dreamed about sleeping.
Friday night, Fen and I decided to go out for some drinks and dancing at the corner pub. I very much want to disprove the theory that British men are useless, and I really thought I was onto something after one of them came over to me and asked if he could share the chair I was sitting in. After giving him a bit of a hard time, I let him. His friend sat down next to Fen. Eventually, they figured out that it was my birthday and offered to buy the next round. We let them. When we moved from the table to the dance floor, they commented on how tall we are. Apparently, we're too tall for them, because after buying me another drink, they disappeared. I feel that this is an excellent start. We got the stubborn British boys to buy us drinks, but we didn't have to do the awkward "do you want my number"thing at the end of the evening. Then Fen pointed out that the guy who actually bought us the drinks was South African. Dammit! So close. It's a start, though. I'm convinced that not all hope is lost.
It's not, because last night I finally got to meet The White Horse! Unfortunately, I can't write up a complete review, as it was a very quick meeting, since I had to run off to another flat viewing. He did, however, proclaim the sloppy joes I made for dinner delicious and ate two of them to back that up. He's off to an excellent start, and so is London.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Grayer's Dream Man
I. Have. Found. Him.
Seriously.
I actually first found him a few months ago but I was having a really stressful day at work - I was extremely close to having a nervous breakdown and (no offense to Grayer here) writing on the blog about it wasn't my first priority. Then I forgot about it. Sorry.
However, thankfully lightening does strike twice. I saw him again yesterday. OK, so he works in my office so I guess it isn't that strange that lightening struck twice. I saw him in the canteen (where I saw him before) and the very first thought that hit me (the same thought I had the first time I saw him) was: Oh my God. That's Grayer's dream man.
I have actually only met Grayer on two occasions, (in Peru when she came to visit Violet)and this was before we had started this blog, so we really only know each other on a cyber level. Yet, I saw this guy and immediately thought of Grayer. This proves just how much this is Grayer's dream man.
Bearded? Check.
Employed? Check. (And for a charity - good sign)
Young? Not older than 26. (Guess)
Funny? Not sure as I haven't actually spoken to him.
I also don't know his name, whether he's single and I also haven't ascertained that he won't dump a girl via Facebook. However, I have a really good feeling about this. I shall endeavor to find out more information.
In the meantime Grayer, start looking for jobs in London. Cupid's mate Fenella is ready with a bow and arrow.
Seriously.
I actually first found him a few months ago but I was having a really stressful day at work - I was extremely close to having a nervous breakdown and (no offense to Grayer here) writing on the blog about it wasn't my first priority. Then I forgot about it. Sorry.
However, thankfully lightening does strike twice. I saw him again yesterday. OK, so he works in my office so I guess it isn't that strange that lightening struck twice. I saw him in the canteen (where I saw him before) and the very first thought that hit me (the same thought I had the first time I saw him) was: Oh my God. That's Grayer's dream man.
I have actually only met Grayer on two occasions, (in Peru when she came to visit Violet)and this was before we had started this blog, so we really only know each other on a cyber level. Yet, I saw this guy and immediately thought of Grayer. This proves just how much this is Grayer's dream man.
Bearded? Check.
Employed? Check. (And for a charity - good sign)
Young? Not older than 26. (Guess)
Funny? Not sure as I haven't actually spoken to him.
I also don't know his name, whether he's single and I also haven't ascertained that he won't dump a girl via Facebook. However, I have a really good feeling about this. I shall endeavor to find out more information.
In the meantime Grayer, start looking for jobs in London. Cupid's mate Fenella is ready with a bow and arrow.
Friday, November 20, 2009
London Update
I moved to London two weeks ago. I haven't meet my Mark Darcy yet. (I'll give it another week). No Daniel Cleavers either (because they're good for a bit of fun). I'm too tired to go out and socialise after work, I much prefer going home and getting into my pyjamas. I spend hours on a variety of trains each day. I've read more free newspapers then I ever have before. The highlight of the journey is seeing who the cutest guy on the escalator is. The highlight of the entire thing so far has been eye-flirting with a cute guy on the train.
I NEED TO GET OUT MORE!! One of these days it would be nice to have a guy I can write about on the blog who isn't my ex. Here's hoping!
I NEED TO GET OUT MORE!! One of these days it would be nice to have a guy I can write about on the blog who isn't my ex. Here's hoping!
Saturday, October 31, 2009
London Calling
You may remember my ABBA themed post a couple of weeks ago where I described the joys of once again living at home. Well, I am pleased to report that I have finally, finally managed to get a job in London. Which means a.) no more living at home and b.) lots and lots and lots of (hopefully) single men in suits.
This joy took a bit of a tumble last night. I was Facebook stalking. (The shame of it!) When I discovered that my ex-boyfriend, the one who causes THE RAGE is also moving to London for work. After suffering the worst RAGE ever, I have calmed down, deleted him from Facebook (because if I didn't I think Violet would actually physically harm me) and have decided that I am not going to let this turn of events bother me. After all, there are 7.7 million people (approx) in London. The odds of seeing him are very, very slim. And if I do see him, so what? I have moved on, he is nothing more than a footnote in the story that is my happy, exciting, Fergus-free life!
So let's get back to the excitement! I'm moving! To London! The home of Bridget Jones! Here's to wine bars, weird men on the underground and finding my Mark Darcy...
This joy took a bit of a tumble last night. I was Facebook stalking. (The shame of it!) When I discovered that my ex-boyfriend, the one who causes THE RAGE is also moving to London for work. After suffering the worst RAGE ever, I have calmed down, deleted him from Facebook (because if I didn't I think Violet would actually physically harm me) and have decided that I am not going to let this turn of events bother me. After all, there are 7.7 million people (approx) in London. The odds of seeing him are very, very slim. And if I do see him, so what? I have moved on, he is nothing more than a footnote in the story that is my happy, exciting, Fergus-free life!
So let's get back to the excitement! I'm moving! To London! The home of Bridget Jones! Here's to wine bars, weird men on the underground and finding my Mark Darcy...
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