escapades in londinium

Okay, I'm not in such a mood anymore.

And seeing as it's Halloween and I am stuck in hotel room, I think I'll synopsise some things.

So, came back from London, had lots of 'I missed you' sex, slept all weekend, worked all week, and friday Liam's brother came.

He is just like tom if tom wasn't add, ocd or in anyway bothered about anything ever. he is the sweetest nicest funnest most laid back non commital person I have ever met (and if you know my friends and family, that's saying something). We spent the weekend going to the movies, wandering through graveyards and generally bumming around.

Then tuesday at dawn, I got on the train to London. Or rather, at 6:24am I woke up when the taxi company called to say my car was outside my house. My alarm didnt go off as planned and thus ensued a rather raucous scramble for the 7am train and a rather flightly and stressful morning (topped off by forgetting my contacts and having to constantly scrunch up my nose as my glasses slip down all week)

Had a couple of meetings on arrival - and kate you'll never guess who might be coming to my festival - and also made lingered eye contact with a remarkably hansome and quite short guy in soho and then wondered why suddenly, pointedly he looked down as we passed, until I realised he was Joseph Finnes and probably thought I was an oogling fan who was about to make a scene. poor guy.

then wandered about the British Museum as the last crowds filtered out. I couldn't get into the Last Emperor exhibition (that army of terra cotta soldiers and all manner of bad ass things), but the Rosetta Stone is always inspiring and the floor mosaics from roman britain are just fucking ace.

Then an evening of spreadsheets, emails and general maintence from the comfort of my totally lush suite with kitchenette topped off by a phone call to my dad.

Today woke up on time and even managed to get to my meeting in Covent Garden, but with half an hour to kill after, what was there to do but accidentally have an adventure?

So orla kiely (orlakiely.co.uk) is the must have of london. or was 3 years ago, and now is almost barely affordable. so, i popped in to have a look as I noticed it nestled between boutiques. being in a cheerful mood and loving the coin purse in the window, I greet the conspicuous, ridiculously cool 3 staff members standing behind the bar. They ask how I am, and general shop talk I disregard and pleasantly reply, thinking nothing of it.

Then they ask me to sign in, and thinking this is some mailing list perk or bet yet prize draw, i don't hesitate.

My pen hesitates only slightly as I skim the list that all say Mary Corontini, Marie Claire and Sophie Davies, Elle wondering if I need to fill in my job, so I put the book festival and wonder if the girl will say anything and starting to wonder what I am doing.

She doesn't though, and a nice young gentleman appears with a goodybag for me to take home and guides me to the showroom. I go down the stairs and it begins to dawn on me this isn't a store at all, but a premiere show for next summer's colletion for the fashion journalist elite. I see some lovely things, turn down the absolutely towering confectionary on every table, and breathe a sigh of relief when there is an exit out the third show room so I don't have to go back and face them. The girl at the door hopes I have a nice say and I mumble some apology for having to rush through like this and dash away before they take back my brilliant gifts.

And by then, it's time for another meeting so I get on with my day.

Which other than half a dozen meetings, also consits of going to a cool book award ceremony over the thames where it's actually given by teenagers (so I obviously chat to them instead of network and convince myself this is intensive groundwork research into my audience), get slightly tipsy and just barely make it to my last appointment.

Then it's a wander through covent garden market, nab a quiet corner in a pub for a steak pie and a good relishing of my new novel, follwed by a quick nap and off to a brilliant lecture on the future of picture books by the childrens laureate.

And now it's 9 pm, I'm back to the spreadsheets and going to do it all over again tomorrow (except the blatant theivery of designer goods part, though i can't promise i won't do something equally preposterous at the mummy museum book launch tomorrow night).

"I hope my children aren't nerds. I want them to be sporty and fun!" (small air punching cheerleader gesture)

I actually heard this fall from an obnoxious american girls mouth on Great Russell Street today.

Granted my sudden rage at this exclamation maybe needs some context. My business trips to London are rather quiet, floating affairs - seeing as I am completely on my own all day everyday just wandering about (think Lost in Translation in english with less hating it), so I generally, on the whole without, decernable emotion. Other than cheerfully glancing at a beautiful pair of shoes or being slightly irked my steak pie turned out to be a chicken pie, it's a relatevely calm almost hollow existance.

And to walk down a sunset street, with the great wonders of western discovery on my right (The British Museum), one of the great feats of quirky modern design under my arm (an orla keily bag), and a wonderful epic historical novel in my hand (the blue flame), I couldn't have been less disappointed in the flippant lack of scope and sanity in college girls. May I never speak to one again.

So, here I am. Riding first class back home after a week in London. The beauty of first class is free tea, coffee and wifi. Plus, no one sits next to you. It's brilliant. even if the old lady in front of me smells of fish and they have run out of pasta lunches.

Mostly London was just meetings and rubbish take away curries in my hotel room to be honest. A very real look at the boring hollow existence of corporate travel. But it did have some highlights.

Met up with old college friend blobel and wrangled him into a illustration exhibition where we possibly got him a job, got v drunk, and met john howe of lotr fame whose illustrated beowulf is outstanding.

Also saw Glengarry/Glenross with Jonathan Pryce in the west end, and one should always see Mamet on your own in an akward vintage theatre. It totally helps.

Plus, watching crap late night tv, caught the life-changing 'the girls guide to 21st century sex' which was far more graphic and weird than you can possibly imagine. Not only including porn star re-enactments, she had an internernal camera inplanted so we could witness all the build up and action (*addendum: and by we all I mean completely and totally me. As 1, I wouldn't be caught dead watching this with real people and 2, I was probably the only person in the country who tuned in to such pseudo-science rubbish). It was oustandingly weird. The hollywood counsellors on velvet sofas added an air of glamour, and then a whole segment on the 30 Lorraina Bobbett incidents a year in Thailand.

I think i need to repeat that. About 30 women a year mutilate and or cut off their husbands dicks in Thailand - and most of the men can look forward to a completely normal life after reattachement up to 15 hours later. It turns out cocks are like starfish legs or newts tails or something. And the beauty of it is, many of the couples stay together - forgive and forget genital multilation I guess. Jesus.

Then waiting in Kings Cross this afternoon, I came across a copy of Diva with Shane from the L word on the front, who is admittedly quite sexy in a flat-chested sort of way. And the cover story was about lesbian authors. Being a woman who loves her some Carol Ann Duffy and has been meaning to read Tipping the Velvet for several years, regardless of my or the authors orientation, I was interested. And I was shocked and appalled at my own hesitation to pick up a lesbian magazine in the crowded bookshop. It was quite surreal actually having the flashes of violence, insolence and general social awareness of prejudice in my head - and sizing up the trucker on my left and the goth on the right to see if it would actually be risky if I was seen picking it up.

So of course I immediately did - freaked out by my own stupidity and being obstenent. Because, really what are the chances they are on my train much less psychotic enough to rape and/or maim me in a lashing out of misguided homophobia? how fucked up.

So yeah, it's been an odd few days.

ps - I hope this post comes out okay, because for some reason the wireless has linked into the swedish version of blogger and i can't read any of the buttons. go figure.

Julie

It's not everyday you celebrate someone's 30th birthday. And Julie being Julie, we had to do it in style (bearing in mind last year she organised an ice skating outting in which I slipped in a monumental moment of slapstick inspiration and busted my tailbone leaving me bedridden for almost a week. Hilarity ensued for almost everyone involved, or so I hear).

And of course Julie being Julie, she is obsessed with the Sound of Music.

Work obligations prevented us actually going to Austria (the original plan), so we had to make do with Edinburgh.

A lunch of schnitzel with noodles (which is actually quite nice) and the soundtrack wafting through the house, followed by a photoshoot in the gardens (some evidence of which is on facebook). Pinafores, a guitar, a little too much giddy singing and my piece de resistance - insisting everyone re-enact the cuckcoo song by popping out from behind her back in sequence as she strummed tunelessly and giggled like she won the lottery.

Then home for warm apple strudel and the film (and a few brown paper packages tied up with string).

There is something so wholesome about good old childish play and a musical birthday party. If only I had the guts to turn my russet drapes with the golden phesants on them (oh yes, they are mine) into leiderhosen I think she could have died happy that day.

So how's life? I am completely devoid of one at the minute. Let's take my yesterday as the perfect example.

Get up, crawl out of bed hungover from publishing dinner with this really amazing American author, throw on whatever is sitting on my chair. (Let it be noted here, it may be wining, dining and general glitz, but it is also hard fucking work chatting and niceness and cajoling the right people and not letting the conversation die. Socialite behaviour is a cultivated skill of gross professionalism.)

Go to morning meeting tiptoeing around an arts partnership that while incredibly promising for the profile has no discernable pricetag attached and I can't get Judy Blume to come for free.

Spend the rest of the day color coding my London visit. The city map behind my desk is covered with post it arrows like a battle plan. The spreadsheet of meetings is color coded by availability and area. Spend a large chunk of time researching appropriately trendy and relaxed cafes in which to set up meetings where they won't mind me sitting with endless cups of tea as a revolving door of publicists joins me for up to 5 hours at a stretch.

Leave work late, do the grocery shopping.

Schlep home and begin unpacking the boxroom, hanging pictures, folding laundry until I realise it's 7:15 and I haven't started the risotto.

Mushroom and wine risotto is fucking excellent (espcially with ceasar salad and crusty bread), but it takes almost an hour and a half to get the rice sufficiently creamy. My self-inflicted domesticity is becoming draining.

Spend an hour standing at the stove, book in one hand, ladle in the other.

Liam comes home, we have dinner, it's 9:30 somehow.

He runs me a lavender bath, then goes to do the dishes while I relax in the steamy foam.

And then i am so tuckered out from the warm fuzzy goodness in my muscles, we get only halfway through the 'what are we doing for christmas' coversation before I conk out.


Okay, maybe I exaggerate. Proper night out, productive day planning first class business trip, culinary delights and a cuddly bath and bedtime.

Life could be much worse, but it could do with a little more excitment at the minute. I want a carpe diem of running through leaves and new riding boots and a train journey to the shore. Not another trip to fucking IKEA and anything remotely resembling microsoft excel.

I cannot wait until thanksgiving. I so need to get a car while I'm in america and escape for awhile.