The relevant double-page of my diary looks like three drunken spiders had bathed in ink then played Holi there: ‘mum arrives’ is scrawled in blue next to the smudged black ink of ‘print Alice tickets!’ near ‘Wales? 1pm?’ in hesitant green. I had my first real visitor and I was determined to show her as wide a spectrum of London as I possibly could. Apologies if this post reads like a shopping list of London activities. That’s how it felt.
Because being an Australian in London is apparently much like being in high school again, let’s talk about boys, shall we?
Prepare for me to be on remarkably good behaviour for two weeks, starting tomorrow.
So, let’s go back to the dark and rainy and neon-lit Clapham High St, midnight on the verge of Good Friday.
“September 1st, 1939,” a voice booms over the speakers, “Germany invades Poland resulting in what many believe to be the beginning of Workd War II. Just over a month before this happens, Mohandas Gandhi writes the first of his two letters to Adolf Hitler attempting to prevent the oncoming war. Here to read that letter, please welcome Sir Ben Kinglsey.”
I heard the most wonderful story this week. Full credit goes to to its author, Simon Rich, who tells it far better than I’m about to.
‘Oh my god!’ I say, ever so wittily.
‘Oh my god,’ she returns, also demonstrating an enviable mastery of the English language.
Before the feeling of enchantment fades — going the way of my love of taking the tube and amusement at double decker red buses — I’ve decided to delve into the london theatre scene in earnest. As best my budget allows.
Welcome to a world where the only way into the club on Saturday at 10pm is a £400 bottle of champagne.
Today, alone, I zipped my black puffy jacket up the whole way, pulled up my hood and turned up Blink-182 on my iPod. Then I just wandered. Brick Lane on a Sunday is a marvellous place to be lost. Absolutely no one gives a damn.
An unsettlingly big place 