My phone vibrates in my jean pocket as I cross the road to the park, the other side of which houses my local cafe. It’s a beautiful morning in late summer and G is texting to say she’s overslept and won’t be able to catch a tube down to me in time for brunch. 'See you tonight?' I roll my eyes, but it’s fine and I tell her as much as I text her back. It’s fine because it’s a beautiful warm sunny morning and it means I can eat bacon and eggs in the sunshine, whilst going through the Saturday papers.
I sip my tea and scan through the supplements as I decide what to eat. And then for the third time in what seems like as many minutes, I am harassed. The problem with the outside area of the café is the constant attention that comes from Wapping’s pigeon population. Having twice tried to shoo them away, I roll up one of the magazines and draw my arm back to take a swipe at the fat grey bird that has landed on my table “fuck”(swipe) “off”. The pigeon has seen the movement coming from a mile off and retreats to a corner of the café terrace. “Poor pigeon” says a voice from the next table. I look over to see a girl with blonde hair, tied in a bun and wearing a black sleeveless summer dress. She’s hiding her eyes behind dark sunglasses as she sits back and lightly cradles a cup of tea between her fingers and thumbs. “Airborne rats, I think you mean” I say. “Poor poor pigeon” she tuts and smiles before taking another sip of her tea.
Just at that moment, the café owner walks out and approaches us on the terrace. “I’m sorry but I’ve just had four people arrive looking for a table. Would it be ok if I asked the both of you to share?” “Yeah, sure” we both say in unison as she gets up and sits in the chair opposite me. I hold out my hand and tell her my name. She takes it and tells me hers – we’ll call her V. She places her food order with the waitress, describing each item at a time, in a way that reminds me of Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. I shake my head, bemused as she looks at me and shrugs her shoulders “What!?” she says defensively. I grin curiously. “So, do you live in Wapping?” I ask. “Yes, I live just over, er.. that way” she says pointing in a general direction as she gets her bearings.
I’ve just met her, barely know her and yet as we delve into conversation, the two-way dialogue feels so easy and effortless. Contrary to the reality of meeting a stranger for the first time, this actually feels more like a catch up with an old friend from way back. We cover a lot of ground, including food, drink, writing, holidays, boyfriends, girlfriends, politics – you name it. We’ve been talking throughout brunch and now, an hour and a half and countless cups of tea later, I realise that I need to get going as I have things to do, and so does she. We pay at the counter for our orders before leaving the café to go our separate ways. It’s been a fun and unexpected brunch and as we are about to part, it feels like it would be somehow wrong to simply say goodbye and watch this girl walk out of my life.
“Well,” I say as we face each other on the pavement outside. “This has been a lovely conversation - it would be a shame not to have it again sometime.” “Yes it would be” she says, nodding in agreement. She gives me her number and I leave her a missed call. “So, see you soon then” she says. “Bye” I say, holding my hand to wave her goodbye.
I take out my phone out and dial a number. “Hello” says G. “So what happened to you this morning you lazy bitch?” I say with a sarcastic grin. “I know, sorry I had a late night and overslept. How was brunch?” “Fabulous and unexpected - I’ll tell you all about it later.” I say. “So are you going to G2’s party tonight?” she asks. “Yup, planning to. Are you?” “Yes, let’s talk then, it’s been too long, you git.” I can hear the warmth in her voice. “It has indeed – shame on you” I say, hearing her laugh at the other end of the phone. I want to talk to her about lots of things, but not right now. “Well, I’ll see you later then. “she says “Yep see you later” “Bye then” “Bye”.
Sunday 9 December 2012
Saturday 16 June 2012
First Crush
It’s a Friday night in March and a cold one, although the steak dinner and two bottles of Rioja have more than compensated for the outside temperature. We are the last people in what is a cosy restaurant near London Bridge. The conversation takes on a personal note over after dinner drinks. G brings up the subject of first loves and I listen intently as she talks about her first major crush when she was a teenager.
“And then he went out with my best friend, who funnily enough, then lost her right to that title” “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that” I tell her, which G dismisses with a wave of her hand. “Ancient history now” she says before downing the remains of her Amaretto. “So, how about you” she says “who was your first crush?” I’m quite inhibited when it comes to opening up, and despite the drink, I briefly think twice before speaking. “Well....” I say as I gaze into my glass. G prods my hand with her finger. “Go on, I told you mine” she says before winking and taking a sip of my drink. I cast my mind back to the clear image of a girl from my teens.
I was 16 years old, still at school and I had a Saturday job at a cash and carry in North London. The crush in question was two years older than me and her name was Rachel Harwood. She was tall and slender with wavy brunette hair falling just past her shoulders. She had warm brown eyes which she hid behind glasses and a wide mouth smile that made you melt when it was aimed in your direction. More than that though, she was intelligent, sarcastic and witty in a way that made all the other girls I met seem bland by comparison. I was hooked – line and sinker!
Every week I’d look forward to catching the bus to work as I knew that she’d be on it, having got on only a few stops before me. That journey was one of the most fun parts of the day and I longed to pluck up the courage to ask her out.
And then one day she announced that she was leaving the cash and carry as she’d had enough, and that the following week would be her last. We spoke about her last day and how she’d feel about saying goodbye to everyone. “I might not come in you know – I’m worried that they’re going to embarrass me in some way.“ she said. “Na - people will just want to say goodbye to you.” I told her. I was thinking of me primarily. I wanted to ask her out, or at least to get her phone number. My thinking was that, shy as I was, that it would be better to ask for her number on her last day. That way, if she were to say no, then it would be less embarrassing as it was her last week anyway.
I went to work the following week, full of excitement. It was when I saw that she wasn’t on the bus that my heart began to sink. She wasn’t at work either and evidently had decided to make good on her threat of not turning up at all on her last day. I was gutted. Why hadn’t I asked for her number when I had the chance!? Why didn’t I ask her out?? There was nothing I could do but torture myself over the fact that now I would never see her again.
A few months later I asked out a girl who I’d been flirting with, and we ended up going on a couple of dates. I liked her, although by the end of the second date I kind of had the feeling that maybe it wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped. Still, I thought a third date wouldn’t do any harm and we decided to go out the following Saturday night.
We met up and caught the bus that would take us to the local tube station. I usually prefer to sit downstairs on busses, but as we got on board, she asked if it was ok if we sat upstairs. I didn’t see any harm and so begrudgingly I followed her up to the top deck. The bus ride was quiet during the journey before we finally pulled up outside the tube station entrance. I followed her downstairs to the lower deck and was about to get off when I suddenly heard my name being called. I looked over to see Rachel Harwood sitting on one of the downstairs seats. She waved her arms at me and smiled the wide mouth smile that helped me fall for her when we worked together. I didn’t think I’d ever see her again, and yet there she was – sitting downstairs on the bus. The same downstairs where I had wanted to sit twenty minutes earlier. I froze. I couldn’t believe it was her. I reached my arm up to wave and opened my mouth to say something, but no sound came out. “Come on” said the date, as she grabbed my hand and pulled me off the bus. The doors closed behind me and the bus began to pull away, leaving me and my date on the pavement. I watched it drive off and saw Rachel turn around in her seat. She smiled at me and gave me a wave of her hand. It felt like a wave of goodbye – the goodbye that had been denied me at the cash and carry, months earlier. I felt more gutted than I could ever remember and in that instant I hated the date for wanting us to sit upstairs. “Come on, we’ll miss the tube” she said. I was still watching the bus as it drove further away. “That was Rachel Harwood, she used to work with us.” “Who? Oh right, come on”. I followed her into the tube station and took a last look at the big red double decker as it moved further into the distance - hope and despair trailing in the plume of its exhaust.
In the restaurant, G looks at me. “Wow” she says. I look down at my drink, in contemplation as I swirl it around the glass. “I caught the same bus every Saturday night for three weeks running, but I never saw her again” I tell her, before downing the remnants of the bourbon in my hand. “Oh my god, that’s so sweet” she says. I feign a stoic smile as I am reminded of the acute sense of dejection and helplessness that I felt in that moment outside the tube station. I look down into the empty glass as G leans forward and clasps her fingers through mine, “You’re lovely” she says softly. I look up and meet her brown eyes. A silence ensues as I hold onto her fingers. I’m about to say something, when she smiles and parts her lips as if to speak, and is immediately interrupted by a waiter. “Would you like anything else?”
“And then he went out with my best friend, who funnily enough, then lost her right to that title” “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that” I tell her, which G dismisses with a wave of her hand. “Ancient history now” she says before downing the remains of her Amaretto. “So, how about you” she says “who was your first crush?” I’m quite inhibited when it comes to opening up, and despite the drink, I briefly think twice before speaking. “Well....” I say as I gaze into my glass. G prods my hand with her finger. “Go on, I told you mine” she says before winking and taking a sip of my drink. I cast my mind back to the clear image of a girl from my teens.
I was 16 years old, still at school and I had a Saturday job at a cash and carry in North London. The crush in question was two years older than me and her name was Rachel Harwood. She was tall and slender with wavy brunette hair falling just past her shoulders. She had warm brown eyes which she hid behind glasses and a wide mouth smile that made you melt when it was aimed in your direction. More than that though, she was intelligent, sarcastic and witty in a way that made all the other girls I met seem bland by comparison. I was hooked – line and sinker!
Every week I’d look forward to catching the bus to work as I knew that she’d be on it, having got on only a few stops before me. That journey was one of the most fun parts of the day and I longed to pluck up the courage to ask her out.
And then one day she announced that she was leaving the cash and carry as she’d had enough, and that the following week would be her last. We spoke about her last day and how she’d feel about saying goodbye to everyone. “I might not come in you know – I’m worried that they’re going to embarrass me in some way.“ she said. “Na - people will just want to say goodbye to you.” I told her. I was thinking of me primarily. I wanted to ask her out, or at least to get her phone number. My thinking was that, shy as I was, that it would be better to ask for her number on her last day. That way, if she were to say no, then it would be less embarrassing as it was her last week anyway.
I went to work the following week, full of excitement. It was when I saw that she wasn’t on the bus that my heart began to sink. She wasn’t at work either and evidently had decided to make good on her threat of not turning up at all on her last day. I was gutted. Why hadn’t I asked for her number when I had the chance!? Why didn’t I ask her out?? There was nothing I could do but torture myself over the fact that now I would never see her again.
A few months later I asked out a girl who I’d been flirting with, and we ended up going on a couple of dates. I liked her, although by the end of the second date I kind of had the feeling that maybe it wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped. Still, I thought a third date wouldn’t do any harm and we decided to go out the following Saturday night.
We met up and caught the bus that would take us to the local tube station. I usually prefer to sit downstairs on busses, but as we got on board, she asked if it was ok if we sat upstairs. I didn’t see any harm and so begrudgingly I followed her up to the top deck. The bus ride was quiet during the journey before we finally pulled up outside the tube station entrance. I followed her downstairs to the lower deck and was about to get off when I suddenly heard my name being called. I looked over to see Rachel Harwood sitting on one of the downstairs seats. She waved her arms at me and smiled the wide mouth smile that helped me fall for her when we worked together. I didn’t think I’d ever see her again, and yet there she was – sitting downstairs on the bus. The same downstairs where I had wanted to sit twenty minutes earlier. I froze. I couldn’t believe it was her. I reached my arm up to wave and opened my mouth to say something, but no sound came out. “Come on” said the date, as she grabbed my hand and pulled me off the bus. The doors closed behind me and the bus began to pull away, leaving me and my date on the pavement. I watched it drive off and saw Rachel turn around in her seat. She smiled at me and gave me a wave of her hand. It felt like a wave of goodbye – the goodbye that had been denied me at the cash and carry, months earlier. I felt more gutted than I could ever remember and in that instant I hated the date for wanting us to sit upstairs. “Come on, we’ll miss the tube” she said. I was still watching the bus as it drove further away. “That was Rachel Harwood, she used to work with us.” “Who? Oh right, come on”. I followed her into the tube station and took a last look at the big red double decker as it moved further into the distance - hope and despair trailing in the plume of its exhaust.
In the restaurant, G looks at me. “Wow” she says. I look down at my drink, in contemplation as I swirl it around the glass. “I caught the same bus every Saturday night for three weeks running, but I never saw her again” I tell her, before downing the remnants of the bourbon in my hand. “Oh my god, that’s so sweet” she says. I feign a stoic smile as I am reminded of the acute sense of dejection and helplessness that I felt in that moment outside the tube station. I look down into the empty glass as G leans forward and clasps her fingers through mine, “You’re lovely” she says softly. I look up and meet her brown eyes. A silence ensues as I hold onto her fingers. I’m about to say something, when she smiles and parts her lips as if to speak, and is immediately interrupted by a waiter. “Would you like anything else?”
Thursday 3 May 2012
The Party - Part 2
The last few weeks have been more stressful than any I can remember in recent years, outside of a work situation. Finally the night of the party has arrived though. The venue has been booked and paid for, the food has been ordered, and the guest list finalised – which has been quite a work in itself. My brother has phoned me earlier in day. He knows I’m bound to be stressed, but has told me just to try to relax and just enjoy the evening. Standing in front of the mirror, I hear his words in my head as I look at my reflection. I down the vodka and tonic by the bedside table and stretch my neck from side to side. I’m wearing a black suit, a white shirt and slim black tie ‘not bad’.
The buzzer of my front door sounds and I hear the blare as the taxi driver sounds the horn outside. My good friend A is waiting with the driver and a couple of other friends. “Looking good” she says as I step out of the entrance to my building. I smile and climb in to the back of the cab, and moments later we are on our way.
No sooner have we arrived at the venue, and spoken to the event manager and bar staff, than the guests start arriving, starting with a number of family members. G arrives shortly after and gives me a big hug, telling me to relax and enjoy the evening. There is then a seemingly endless period where the door is continually open with people arriving, including some who I hadn't the least idea would be able to make it.
I have been on a number of dates over the past year, and whilst things may not have worked out in the romantic sense, I now at least have a number of new friends that I didn’t have a year ago. A few of them have turned up this evening for the party. However, this also gives way to awkward introductions as people meet one another and ask the inevitable question about how they know me. “So, you’ve got a lot of ex’s here tonight” says a recent date, with her arms folded and wearing a frown. I smile sheepishly.
A friend of mine walks over to me. “Hey where’s G?" she says "I’ve read so much about her in your blogs but never met her.” G happens to be standing right behind her, overhears the conversation and turns around to catch my eye over the girls shoulder. Regular readers will know that G is the most frequent reoccurrence in this blog. “Just keep me anonymous” she regularly tells me. I shrug my shoulders at my friend “G doesn’t exist” I say “she’s based on a different person every time.” “Oh really?” says my friend disappointedly. G winks at me and reverts back to her conversation.
As more people arrive, I find it difficult to hold conversations with people for more than a few minutes at a time. I flit between different groups and try to ensure that I haven’t ignored or forgotten anyone. “People are enjoying themselves, relax and do the same” says A as she tops up my glass. I nod in agreement take a look around the room at the increasing numbers of people and smile inwardly. Just then another friend walks over to me and puts his arm around my shoulder. “Are you enjoying yourself mate?” “I am” I tell him “I’m a bit overwhelmed actually. I mean it’s one thing to see a long list of names on a guest list, but quite another to see them all in the same room together”. “Well to be honest,” he says, “the fact that you’ve managed to get this many people out, the week before Christmas, says a lot about you”. I feel a glow inside and we clink glasses.
I’m standing, facing the bar when someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around to find myself face to face with the SA. “Hello” she smiles. I have history with this girl and a couple of years ago she broke my heart, although she probably isn’t aware of this fact. We’re good and close friends now though. My desire to remain cool and aloof is betrayed by the smile on my face. She looks terrific and over the next couple of hours we talk, we drink, I introduce her to friends, we dance and we kiss in the middle of the dance floor, oblivious to anyone who might be watching. She has said that she has to go to a leaving do elsewhere later, although I have put this out of my mind as we kiss. A short while later though and I am talking to someone else as she taps me on the shoulder and tells me that she has to leave. I’ve forgotten that she was going. “Stay” I say, “I can’t, I said I’d go to my friend’s do”. I sigh inwardly and with a heavy heart, I help her get her coat and walk her to the top of the stairs. We face each other in the short corridor leading from the top of the stairs to the entrance. I don't want her to go. I press her against the wall and we kiss again. After a few minutes I break the kiss. “Stay” I whisper. “I’m sorry, I can’t” she says. I look into her eyes and I realise that I’m still in love with her. ‘You’re breaking my heart’. I watch her leave as she looks back before disappearing out of the entrance.
My eyes feel hot and there’s a lump in my throat as I walk back downstairs to rejoin the party, which is now beginning to thin out. I get myself a drink from the bar, where G joins me. “You ok?” she asks. I look at her and she can see that I’m not. We take our drinks to a sofa and I tell her about what has just happened and open up about some of the history. I haven’t spoken to G about the SA before. Opening up like this isn't something that comes naturally to me. She rests her hand on mine though, and her eyes are so warm and kind that it feels so simple to talk about something so personal. It also brings an unexpectly cathartic element which lifts my mood. She hugs me warmly, her cheek against mine and reminds me that this, after all, is my birthday party. “You ok now?” she says after a while. I shrug my shoulders and smile at her. “Yes – thanks”. She stands up, taking my hand in hers as we rejoin the party.
It’s gone 2am now, and the party is a hardcore of just over half a dozen close friends. People have stopped dancing. The champagne has finished, the shots have been drunk and people are now swirling Baileys and late night Brandy. Looking around the group, there is a mutual recognition of tiredness, achy feet and a feeling that the evening is coming to a close. “Time for taxis?” says G. I nod and smile “Yes, I think so”. “Have you had a good night?” says A. I ponder - I have eaten well and drunk more than my fair share of champagne and vodka. I have been overwhelmed at the turnout, some of whom I had no idea would come. I have felt loved by close friends and my family. I have felt both deliriously happy and intensely sad, but right now I am feeling content. “Yes, a very good night”. I thank the bar staff and follow the others out into the cold December air.
Outside on the pavement, I see that A has hailed a taxi for a few of us to head back to East London and is holding the door open. I am about to get in, when I look across to see G getting into a silver taxi to head in a different direction. She looks across and we catch one another’s eye. “Thank you” I mouth at her. She blows a kiss and puts a finger and thumb to her ear as she indicates and mouths "call me". I nod before getting into the cab next to A and I close the door. “Anything you want to tell me about there?” she asks, nodding over to G. I shrug my shoulders “No, we’re just friends.” I look out of the back window and watch the silver taxi as it drives away.
The buzzer of my front door sounds and I hear the blare as the taxi driver sounds the horn outside. My good friend A is waiting with the driver and a couple of other friends. “Looking good” she says as I step out of the entrance to my building. I smile and climb in to the back of the cab, and moments later we are on our way.
No sooner have we arrived at the venue, and spoken to the event manager and bar staff, than the guests start arriving, starting with a number of family members. G arrives shortly after and gives me a big hug, telling me to relax and enjoy the evening. There is then a seemingly endless period where the door is continually open with people arriving, including some who I hadn't the least idea would be able to make it.
I have been on a number of dates over the past year, and whilst things may not have worked out in the romantic sense, I now at least have a number of new friends that I didn’t have a year ago. A few of them have turned up this evening for the party. However, this also gives way to awkward introductions as people meet one another and ask the inevitable question about how they know me. “So, you’ve got a lot of ex’s here tonight” says a recent date, with her arms folded and wearing a frown. I smile sheepishly.
A friend of mine walks over to me. “Hey where’s G?" she says "I’ve read so much about her in your blogs but never met her.” G happens to be standing right behind her, overhears the conversation and turns around to catch my eye over the girls shoulder. Regular readers will know that G is the most frequent reoccurrence in this blog. “Just keep me anonymous” she regularly tells me. I shrug my shoulders at my friend “G doesn’t exist” I say “she’s based on a different person every time.” “Oh really?” says my friend disappointedly. G winks at me and reverts back to her conversation.
As more people arrive, I find it difficult to hold conversations with people for more than a few minutes at a time. I flit between different groups and try to ensure that I haven’t ignored or forgotten anyone. “People are enjoying themselves, relax and do the same” says A as she tops up my glass. I nod in agreement take a look around the room at the increasing numbers of people and smile inwardly. Just then another friend walks over to me and puts his arm around my shoulder. “Are you enjoying yourself mate?” “I am” I tell him “I’m a bit overwhelmed actually. I mean it’s one thing to see a long list of names on a guest list, but quite another to see them all in the same room together”. “Well to be honest,” he says, “the fact that you’ve managed to get this many people out, the week before Christmas, says a lot about you”. I feel a glow inside and we clink glasses.
I’m standing, facing the bar when someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around to find myself face to face with the SA. “Hello” she smiles. I have history with this girl and a couple of years ago she broke my heart, although she probably isn’t aware of this fact. We’re good and close friends now though. My desire to remain cool and aloof is betrayed by the smile on my face. She looks terrific and over the next couple of hours we talk, we drink, I introduce her to friends, we dance and we kiss in the middle of the dance floor, oblivious to anyone who might be watching. She has said that she has to go to a leaving do elsewhere later, although I have put this out of my mind as we kiss. A short while later though and I am talking to someone else as she taps me on the shoulder and tells me that she has to leave. I’ve forgotten that she was going. “Stay” I say, “I can’t, I said I’d go to my friend’s do”. I sigh inwardly and with a heavy heart, I help her get her coat and walk her to the top of the stairs. We face each other in the short corridor leading from the top of the stairs to the entrance. I don't want her to go. I press her against the wall and we kiss again. After a few minutes I break the kiss. “Stay” I whisper. “I’m sorry, I can’t” she says. I look into her eyes and I realise that I’m still in love with her. ‘You’re breaking my heart’. I watch her leave as she looks back before disappearing out of the entrance.
My eyes feel hot and there’s a lump in my throat as I walk back downstairs to rejoin the party, which is now beginning to thin out. I get myself a drink from the bar, where G joins me. “You ok?” she asks. I look at her and she can see that I’m not. We take our drinks to a sofa and I tell her about what has just happened and open up about some of the history. I haven’t spoken to G about the SA before. Opening up like this isn't something that comes naturally to me. She rests her hand on mine though, and her eyes are so warm and kind that it feels so simple to talk about something so personal. It also brings an unexpectly cathartic element which lifts my mood. She hugs me warmly, her cheek against mine and reminds me that this, after all, is my birthday party. “You ok now?” she says after a while. I shrug my shoulders and smile at her. “Yes – thanks”. She stands up, taking my hand in hers as we rejoin the party.
It’s gone 2am now, and the party is a hardcore of just over half a dozen close friends. People have stopped dancing. The champagne has finished, the shots have been drunk and people are now swirling Baileys and late night Brandy. Looking around the group, there is a mutual recognition of tiredness, achy feet and a feeling that the evening is coming to a close. “Time for taxis?” says G. I nod and smile “Yes, I think so”. “Have you had a good night?” says A. I ponder - I have eaten well and drunk more than my fair share of champagne and vodka. I have been overwhelmed at the turnout, some of whom I had no idea would come. I have felt loved by close friends and my family. I have felt both deliriously happy and intensely sad, but right now I am feeling content. “Yes, a very good night”. I thank the bar staff and follow the others out into the cold December air.
Outside on the pavement, I see that A has hailed a taxi for a few of us to head back to East London and is holding the door open. I am about to get in, when I look across to see G getting into a silver taxi to head in a different direction. She looks across and we catch one another’s eye. “Thank you” I mouth at her. She blows a kiss and puts a finger and thumb to her ear as she indicates and mouths "call me". I nod before getting into the cab next to A and I close the door. “Anything you want to tell me about there?” she asks, nodding over to G. I shrug my shoulders “No, we’re just friends.” I look out of the back window and watch the silver taxi as it drives away.
Monday 26 March 2012
Close
“Thank you so much for coming, I wasn’t sure if you’d make it as I know you work far away.” “Don’t be silly” I say, “I said I’d come – you were terrific as ever.” N2 is a singer/songwriter and an old travel buddy of mine who I’ve known for a decade. She’s been playing a gig in North London although it’s now late and we’re saying our goodbyes before I go home.
I head to the Northern Line to get back into town and ponder the journey home from there. I could get the Central Line from Bank to Liverpool Street and then catch a bus that goes practically past my front door. ‘No, screw it’ I decide to catch the DLR to Shadwell and then walk from there. It’ll only be around midnight when I get to Bank and so the DLR should still be running. I make the change at Bank, and as expected, the DLR is indeed still running and I manage to jump onto one of the carriages just as the doors start to beep before closing. After one stop I’m at Shadwell and get off to in order to walk the final leg of the journey back to Wapping.
It's a chilly night, as I walk down Wapping Lane, and I zip up my leather jacket and put my hands in the pockets. The time is just after midnight and it’s always very quiet in the area at this hour, although you can usually spot one or two people on their way back from a night out. And this is what I see as I turn into my road. I’m not sure I have even seen where they have come from, but two guys seem to be walking in my direction.
I walk briskly because of the cold air and I’m looking straight ahead. They cross the road at the same time as me, as I walk further down the road to get to the entrance to my building. At first I have assumed that they are two friends on their way home from a night out. However, my internal alert tells me that something doesn’t feel quite right. Despite my walking at a brisk pace, they seem to be getting closer. My hands are in my pockets and I can feel my door key and the entrance fob to get me into my building as I continue to walk. One of the men who has been walking not far behind me has now caught up with me and is on my right. He has slowed down so that we are now walking at the same pace. I glance to my left and out of the corner of my eye, I can see that his friend is walking about three feet behind me. The guy to my right is almost brushing against my arm as I walk. I can see that he’s taller than me and is wearing an oversize trapper hat that hides his face. I feel a chill as I realise what is happening.
‘How am I going to get out of this?’ I feel like I’m about to be jumped at any moment. There are two of them, they are both bigger than me and I can’t remember the last time I had a fight. Fear brings with it a rush of adrenalin, and in a second I scan the immediate area for possible exits out of this situation. There should be a gate here on the left that I can quickly duck through. ‘Shit, I’ve passed it already’ The next gate is 10 meters away. ‘Look straight ahead, pretend you haven’t noticed them’ 6 metres. I can’t run. If I make a run for it then it’s game over, 4 metres. I need to look like I’m walking straight down the road and hope for the tiniest element of surprise when I make a sharp left at the gate, 2 metres. My heart is pounding as I get closer to the gate and I just hope that I'm not jumped before I reach it. 1 metre. ‘One more step - Now!’
I make a sudden turn on my heal through the gate entrance and almost immediately make another left. I pull the key fob out of my pocket as I reach the entrance door of my building. In an instant, the door beeps and I am inside, pulling it closed behind me. I glance over quickly to see both guys standing still and looking at me. ‘Are they following?’ I don’t stop moving and my flat is on the 4th floor. ‘Stairs of lift?’ My paranoia tells me that I’m safer on the stairs, which I run up, two steps at a time until I reach my floor. I haven’t heard anyone come through the security door behind me, although I don’t slow down for a moment. I walk briskly along the walkway and within a minute I am at my front door. I am slightly out of breath and my heart is pounding in my chest, but I am home and I am safe.
I open my front door and sling my leather jacket on the sofa as I walk past the lounge. It’s then that I contemplate the last few minutes and what a close run experience I have just had. And now I feel angry, fuelled by the adrenalin, as I think of the I-phone inside my jacket on the sofa, the cash in my wallet, still in my jeans and the bank cards that I now won’t have to cancel. ‘Fucking bastards, how fucking dare they...’ I am too wound up to go straight to bed and so I undress in the bathroom, leaving my clothes in a heap on the floor and stand under the shower whilst I brood over what might otherwise have been. 10 minutes later I dry myself as I continue to mull it over. I toss the towel over one of the bedposts and climb naked under the duvet. I close my eyes and 10 minutes later I am asleep.
I head to the Northern Line to get back into town and ponder the journey home from there. I could get the Central Line from Bank to Liverpool Street and then catch a bus that goes practically past my front door. ‘No, screw it’ I decide to catch the DLR to Shadwell and then walk from there. It’ll only be around midnight when I get to Bank and so the DLR should still be running. I make the change at Bank, and as expected, the DLR is indeed still running and I manage to jump onto one of the carriages just as the doors start to beep before closing. After one stop I’m at Shadwell and get off to in order to walk the final leg of the journey back to Wapping.
It's a chilly night, as I walk down Wapping Lane, and I zip up my leather jacket and put my hands in the pockets. The time is just after midnight and it’s always very quiet in the area at this hour, although you can usually spot one or two people on their way back from a night out. And this is what I see as I turn into my road. I’m not sure I have even seen where they have come from, but two guys seem to be walking in my direction.
I walk briskly because of the cold air and I’m looking straight ahead. They cross the road at the same time as me, as I walk further down the road to get to the entrance to my building. At first I have assumed that they are two friends on their way home from a night out. However, my internal alert tells me that something doesn’t feel quite right. Despite my walking at a brisk pace, they seem to be getting closer. My hands are in my pockets and I can feel my door key and the entrance fob to get me into my building as I continue to walk. One of the men who has been walking not far behind me has now caught up with me and is on my right. He has slowed down so that we are now walking at the same pace. I glance to my left and out of the corner of my eye, I can see that his friend is walking about three feet behind me. The guy to my right is almost brushing against my arm as I walk. I can see that he’s taller than me and is wearing an oversize trapper hat that hides his face. I feel a chill as I realise what is happening.
‘How am I going to get out of this?’ I feel like I’m about to be jumped at any moment. There are two of them, they are both bigger than me and I can’t remember the last time I had a fight. Fear brings with it a rush of adrenalin, and in a second I scan the immediate area for possible exits out of this situation. There should be a gate here on the left that I can quickly duck through. ‘Shit, I’ve passed it already’ The next gate is 10 meters away. ‘Look straight ahead, pretend you haven’t noticed them’ 6 metres. I can’t run. If I make a run for it then it’s game over, 4 metres. I need to look like I’m walking straight down the road and hope for the tiniest element of surprise when I make a sharp left at the gate, 2 metres. My heart is pounding as I get closer to the gate and I just hope that I'm not jumped before I reach it. 1 metre. ‘One more step - Now!’
I make a sudden turn on my heal through the gate entrance and almost immediately make another left. I pull the key fob out of my pocket as I reach the entrance door of my building. In an instant, the door beeps and I am inside, pulling it closed behind me. I glance over quickly to see both guys standing still and looking at me. ‘Are they following?’ I don’t stop moving and my flat is on the 4th floor. ‘Stairs of lift?’ My paranoia tells me that I’m safer on the stairs, which I run up, two steps at a time until I reach my floor. I haven’t heard anyone come through the security door behind me, although I don’t slow down for a moment. I walk briskly along the walkway and within a minute I am at my front door. I am slightly out of breath and my heart is pounding in my chest, but I am home and I am safe.
I open my front door and sling my leather jacket on the sofa as I walk past the lounge. It’s then that I contemplate the last few minutes and what a close run experience I have just had. And now I feel angry, fuelled by the adrenalin, as I think of the I-phone inside my jacket on the sofa, the cash in my wallet, still in my jeans and the bank cards that I now won’t have to cancel. ‘Fucking bastards, how fucking dare they...’ I am too wound up to go straight to bed and so I undress in the bathroom, leaving my clothes in a heap on the floor and stand under the shower whilst I brood over what might otherwise have been. 10 minutes later I dry myself as I continue to mull it over. I toss the towel over one of the bedposts and climb naked under the duvet. I close my eyes and 10 minutes later I am asleep.
Sunday 19 February 2012
The Party - Part 1
It’s just coming up to Christmas, and my birthday – a big birthday, is only a few short weeks away. Usually I don’t really celebrate my birthday, due to a mixture of bad planning and bad timing. It falls on Christmas Eve and so doing anything on my actual birthday is difficult. I don’t usually enjoy parties – not my own anyway, as I tend to worry about who I haven’t spoken to and I get vexed at no shows. I’m turning 40 though, and if I don’t celebrate, then I know I will regret it at some point later. After pondering on whether to have a house party or a dinner party, I decide that I don’t want the hassle of moving furniture or cleaning up afterwards. I also need space and my flat isn’t big enough for the sort of gathering I have in mind.
I looking at reserving a private area in a bar somewhere. With this in mind I pop into Floridita in Soho and enquire about renting a semi private area for the Saturday before Christmas. The events organiser tells me “We can cater for 70 people in a semi private area”. “Okay, that sounds cool. How much does it cost?” I ask. “Oh it’s free to hire” she says, “but we have a minimum spend of £7000.” ‘£7000!!?? You’re taking the piss!’ Sadly she isn’t. One of the problems with having a Christmas birthday is that organising anything gets expensive. So many people are trying to organise parties that the demand pushes the price up – in the same way that it costs a fortune to buy red roses on Valentines Day. Still, there is somewhere else just around the corner from here that I have earmarked and stopped by a couple of days ago. It looked quite nice and I was told that I could rent a couple of booths at minimal cost. However, I wanted to see what the place is like when full of people. I pop by in the evening after leaving Floridita and head to the downstairs bar, only to be confronted by a sea of teenagers listening to Justin Bieber. It’s way too young, and is another place to strike from the list. However, there is one more venue that I have seen and is just around the corner from here in Archer Street.
I walk in, nodding to the doorman who I spoke to a couple of days earlier and head to the downstairs bar. I’m pleased to see the place full with a cool looking clientele in their 30’s and 40’s. As I walk amongst the crowd, a waitress approaches me. “Would you like a mini fish and chips sir?” she says. “Oh, yes thanks” I say surprised. I move to the bar to take in the atmosphere of the place and try to picture it on a Saturday night with all my friends. The barman approaches, “Would you like a beer sir?” he says as he hands me a bottle of Becks. “Er, yeah, sure” I say, again surprised. I eat some more of my mini fish and chips and sip my beer. In the middle of swigging my beer I hear something that makes me turn around ‘clink clink clink..’ A grey haired man of about 50 stands up on a coffee table, just as the whole room looks at him. “Hi guys, I’m so glad you could all make it. It’s been a big project of seven years in the making as you all know, but we’ve really made a difference to the lives of people in Iraq and you should feel proud...” ‘Oh shit’, I freeze as I realise It’s a private party and I’m eating his food and drinking his drink. And now as he talks, he is looking right at me with fish and chips in my left hand and a beer in my right, and the quizzical look on his face makes it clear that he’s thinking ‘who the fuck are you?’ I can’t leave though whilst he’s speaking as I’m standing right in front of him. So I nod and clap in time with everyone else throughout his speech and will him to get it over with so that I can dash out. This he does, and I swear that I can hear people asking “Who’s that guy?” as I skulk out the door.
That bar is ok, but one thing that has come from seeing these different places, is that I am getting a better idea of the sort of party and venue that I would like to have. Nice as it was, if I rented a few booths in that last place, then I think I would feel as if I’m renting a space at someone else’s party. I walk along Old Compton Street wondering if I am actually going to find anywhere I like and a slight melancholy hits me. I wonder if I’m being too fickle as I realise there’s a chance that the party might not happen.
And then I walk past Boheme Kitchen on Old Compton Street and I happen to look up and there see a very cosy looking room with Christmas lights on the first floor. My phone rings. It’s G - she’s local and wonders if I’m close by and fancy dinner. She joins me and I tell her what I’ve been up to. We go into Boheme Kitchen to enquire about whether the cosy room I’ve just seen is one of their function rooms. The manager informs me that the room is part of Soho House and takes me to their reception. I’m not allowed to book the room I’ve seen because I’m not a member. However, I am able to rent the basement bar and it turns out to be available on the night I want. He leads us downstairs to the bar, opens the door and switches on the lights. It’s chic, cosy, perfect and I love it. “It’s so you” says G, “You’ve got to take it”. I smile, although mentally I write it off. If Floridita wanted £7000 minimum spend for a small roped off area then the private hire of this basement bar is bound to cost something silly. “It’s £200 for the hire of the room and £1500 minimum spend behind the bar” says the event organiser. G looks at me and raises an eyebrow knowingly. I look to the event organiser “I’ll take it.”
I looking at reserving a private area in a bar somewhere. With this in mind I pop into Floridita in Soho and enquire about renting a semi private area for the Saturday before Christmas. The events organiser tells me “We can cater for 70 people in a semi private area”. “Okay, that sounds cool. How much does it cost?” I ask. “Oh it’s free to hire” she says, “but we have a minimum spend of £7000.” ‘£7000!!?? You’re taking the piss!’ Sadly she isn’t. One of the problems with having a Christmas birthday is that organising anything gets expensive. So many people are trying to organise parties that the demand pushes the price up – in the same way that it costs a fortune to buy red roses on Valentines Day. Still, there is somewhere else just around the corner from here that I have earmarked and stopped by a couple of days ago. It looked quite nice and I was told that I could rent a couple of booths at minimal cost. However, I wanted to see what the place is like when full of people. I pop by in the evening after leaving Floridita and head to the downstairs bar, only to be confronted by a sea of teenagers listening to Justin Bieber. It’s way too young, and is another place to strike from the list. However, there is one more venue that I have seen and is just around the corner from here in Archer Street.
I walk in, nodding to the doorman who I spoke to a couple of days earlier and head to the downstairs bar. I’m pleased to see the place full with a cool looking clientele in their 30’s and 40’s. As I walk amongst the crowd, a waitress approaches me. “Would you like a mini fish and chips sir?” she says. “Oh, yes thanks” I say surprised. I move to the bar to take in the atmosphere of the place and try to picture it on a Saturday night with all my friends. The barman approaches, “Would you like a beer sir?” he says as he hands me a bottle of Becks. “Er, yeah, sure” I say, again surprised. I eat some more of my mini fish and chips and sip my beer. In the middle of swigging my beer I hear something that makes me turn around ‘clink clink clink..’ A grey haired man of about 50 stands up on a coffee table, just as the whole room looks at him. “Hi guys, I’m so glad you could all make it. It’s been a big project of seven years in the making as you all know, but we’ve really made a difference to the lives of people in Iraq and you should feel proud...” ‘Oh shit’, I freeze as I realise It’s a private party and I’m eating his food and drinking his drink. And now as he talks, he is looking right at me with fish and chips in my left hand and a beer in my right, and the quizzical look on his face makes it clear that he’s thinking ‘who the fuck are you?’ I can’t leave though whilst he’s speaking as I’m standing right in front of him. So I nod and clap in time with everyone else throughout his speech and will him to get it over with so that I can dash out. This he does, and I swear that I can hear people asking “Who’s that guy?” as I skulk out the door.
That bar is ok, but one thing that has come from seeing these different places, is that I am getting a better idea of the sort of party and venue that I would like to have. Nice as it was, if I rented a few booths in that last place, then I think I would feel as if I’m renting a space at someone else’s party. I walk along Old Compton Street wondering if I am actually going to find anywhere I like and a slight melancholy hits me. I wonder if I’m being too fickle as I realise there’s a chance that the party might not happen.
And then I walk past Boheme Kitchen on Old Compton Street and I happen to look up and there see a very cosy looking room with Christmas lights on the first floor. My phone rings. It’s G - she’s local and wonders if I’m close by and fancy dinner. She joins me and I tell her what I’ve been up to. We go into Boheme Kitchen to enquire about whether the cosy room I’ve just seen is one of their function rooms. The manager informs me that the room is part of Soho House and takes me to their reception. I’m not allowed to book the room I’ve seen because I’m not a member. However, I am able to rent the basement bar and it turns out to be available on the night I want. He leads us downstairs to the bar, opens the door and switches on the lights. It’s chic, cosy, perfect and I love it. “It’s so you” says G, “You’ve got to take it”. I smile, although mentally I write it off. If Floridita wanted £7000 minimum spend for a small roped off area then the private hire of this basement bar is bound to cost something silly. “It’s £200 for the hire of the room and £1500 minimum spend behind the bar” says the event organiser. G looks at me and raises an eyebrow knowingly. I look to the event organiser “I’ll take it.”
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