Lots of new things: snow on the ground, Twickenham and the trickiness of making new friends.
My resting bitch face is no longer resting.
Prepare for me to be on remarkably good behaviour for two weeks, starting tomorrow.
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.
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.
You knew the restaurant was going to be trendy because it was under a sex shop. I’d arrived first and was snuggled into the basement sex-den-come-Mexican-bodega with a tempranillo and the deliberately cryptic menu.
A handy guide for other London neophytes.
“The Virginia Reel!”
The emcee on the hall’s stage is, disappointingly, not kilted but is to be forgiven as he has a beautiful Scottish brogue, great lungs and a love of the dance.