a true Londoner?

I've been thinking lately about what makes 'imports to London' true Londoners. I'm sure that true true Londoners would argue that they are the only true Londoners but what if they've never left their square mile? or what if they've left their square mile just once- only to never leave it again?

Eating a curry in Brick Lane does not a true Londoner make. Nor does having a postcode within the M25. Or shopping at Brent Cross.

I think I've endured well these last 6 years. I shop regularly at Liberty (albeit only for the fabric, plates and mostly during the sale!), I don't call the tube lines by their colours (anymore), I have a regular waxer, hairdresser (although she's not in London!) and local Indian restaurant- where I am known as ‘Ms Tracy’ and have special things made for me. I pay Richmond’s exorbitant council tax. I attend quarterly neighbourhood meetings and I vote in the local elections. I know how to get to Waterstone’s via the Cricketeer and the Sun.

I have locked in to my energy supplier to ward off the forecasted 30% increase. All of my appliances and anything that requires a plug have UK sockets and I have developed my own accent of mixed nationalities over the years away from my homeland.

I still call Canada 'home'- but I call New Zealand 'home' as well, and of course there is 'home' where I sleep every night. It gets a bit confusing for others, I am aware, but it's all home to me. London is one of those places- home.

So aside from the fact that I rarely go shopping in the city (and usually take a map with me when I do go) I do know where things are, I know how to plan a trip to town and I know where not to buy stuff...and where bargains can be found or made.

I digress. This has become more about living in the UK than being a Londoner.

Although I don't have a car of my own anymore (thanks to the lovely Polish painter and his son who hit me), I do have access to a car when I want (or need) one- because I belong to a car club. That's pretty urban isn't it? You book it, you use it, you don't worry about the rest. Petrol magically appears...and so do the dents in the door and the scratches on the boot...but after a while those magically disappear. All the glory of using the car, none of the worry about owning a car.

I've been on the London open-topped bus tours more times than I can now count- so I know where the tourist attractions are, where to take visitors, where to sit and when to look. Most true Londoners wouldn't know half the cool stuff that I know about their city- and I love that!

I can (almost) tell time by the flight of airplanes overhead. Lots and it’s day, not lots and it’s night.

I still don’t know how to appreciate a good pint of ale (I recently took a pint back to the bartender because it was ‘flat and warm’ and he said ‘it’s supposed to be’ and I ended up giving the pint to James- who was pretty pleased- and went back for a cider- at least it was cold and bubbly!) so yuck. But not all Londoners drink ale. And I don’t like mushy peas, cod (wormy) with my fish & chips- or any of the crappy shows on the telly that seem to be programmed into the brains of my London friends (sorry girls)- but mostly they are not from London either so maybe it’s just a national love of extremely bad UK-made tv shows that I have not acquired. And I don’t wish to either. I once watched a whole 30 minutes of Coronation Street, Eastenders and Holby City before I vowed to never EVER watch any of them again. I’m sure there’s one other in the mix but I can’t remember it- that’s how bad it was.

So. I don’t chat with strangers on the bus or the tube (they never chat back unless they are foreign or old) and I don’t make eye contact when I’m walking down the street anymore- Londoners don’t do that. I give up my seat to those who need it more than I do- and I put my rubbish into a bin- or hold onto it until I find one- which sometimes isn’t till I get home. I have the utmost respect for bus drivers and always say ‘thank you’ when I get on and get off the bus- because they get me where I need to be safely (mostly) and timely (sometimes).

So there it is. I think I’ve passed the test but maybe I’ve just acclimatised.

favourite things

I have this brush that my grandma gave me...I had to ask for it, of course, as an old manky brush isn't something that would be thought about when it comes time to inheritances...

I have memories from when I was a child that seem like yesterday- corn on the cob eaten in the fields after combining and the smell of oil on papa's skin. My family come from a long line of farmers- wheat, cows, the obligatory chickens and then peas, rapeseed and buffalo.

My mama would cook for a dozen then take the hot food out to the field for the men to eat on their break from seeding, combining or doing whatever it is that farmers do till late in the evening. I still love the blue jug with spots on it that held the best iced tea and lemonade in the world (which I think is still in her cupboard). I can still taste the field dust. There is always dust on the prairie. It gets into your ears, your skin, your mouth and your eyes and there's nothing to do but blink and spit and know that you can have a bath when you get home.

I remember my mama brushing her long hair out at night, hair that during the day was in a french roll and never during daylight did we see it loose. I remember her rolling it up in curlers and pincurls for bed...and bobbypins in her mouth. I remember having knots in my hair after playing outside all day- with thin fine hair knots are no laughing matter! Out would come mama's magical brush and the knots wouldn't seem so bad and my hair always felt smooth as silk afterwards. Oh, I loved that brush.

The farming continues now with one of my uncles but the days of mama's long hair are long gone- she cut it years ago and has no need for pincurls or french rolls, bobby pins or curlers anymore. So I asked for the brush. She had kept it- even though she had no use for it- and it now resides in my bedroom.

I don't think it's the same brush she used on my hair as a child- but it's still got that old magic. Knots are freed, hair is smooth and all is right in my world of fine thin hair for another day.

confessions

okay, so I have a few things to get off my chest which I'm sure some of you know and some of you suspect- but some of you don't know at all, haven't suspected and will be quite surprised by.

I love to iron. This morning I got up, turned the iron on and got out all the saved wrinkled shirts, napkins and skirts and started. What a buzz! and how sad. I must say, however, that I draw the line at towels, underwear and socks of any sort.

I love to organise. I love to sort. Everything has to have a place and f it has no place it is relegated to the laundry room until I have a place for it. I sort my clothing by season, my knickers and fabric by colour and my shoes by 'ouch factor' (thankfully I have only one pair in the worst category). This is probably a result of having a mother who creates 'nests' in every room she occupies and, like a rat, those nests can stay the same for years. I once found a baby tooth of mine at the bottom of one- and we'd even moved several times in my youth!

I am somewhat addicted to the paper shredder. Pretty much anything I can shred I do these days- which wreaks havoc on recycling days as the clear bags I put the shredded paper into always seem to burst open as the guys toss it into the truck- I must confess that I don't go and pick all the shredded paper up after this happens- I figure it's probably good fertiliser for the Green.

I love to shop at charity shops. Again, this is an off-shoot from my youth when mum would drag me- on Saturday mornings- all over hell and creation to garage sales. I would slouch down in the car pretending that I was roller-skating. There would always be something I saw through the car window that I liked, and I would inevitably get mum to go and get it for me. This obsession with charity shops started after I left school and was free to wear the neighbour’s tops without repercussions. Although I would never have worn anything from any of our neighbours- ew. Wherever I have lived I have regular ‘good’ shops that I frequent and share the insider knowledge with only my closest friends. This can be hazardous though, as they can scoop something you actually spotted first but got sidetracked on the way through the vintage fabric…I tend to charity shop on my own these days- keeps my friendships healthy.

I sing out loud when I have my ipod on. This can be somewhat embarrassing at the gym. Or on the tube, on the beach or even in my own kitchen. I tend to do a little dance as well- again, I think this is a throwback to my youth- I can clearly remember ABBA, Olivia Newton-John and the BEEGEES on full blast while mum danced around the lounge cleaning- no, scrap cleaning- there were nests, remember?- I think she was just dancing and singing. I do it all the time and have no shame- especially when I am cooking, cleaning or ironing!

I have several collections that I cannot stop adding to. These include, but are no limited to: buttons, fabric, cookbooks (yes, I do use them!), plates, mercury ‘things’, pens, paper, notebooks, purses and bags of any description (almost), glass apothecary jars, vintage linens and suitcases. Some of these things are obvious, some are sealed in boxes and some are in daily or weekly use. I make no excuses for the purses and bags.

Okay, I need to continue with the ironing now.

a quick trip to civilisation...

although H would disagree...

Went to the Electric Cinema to see The Dark Knight this afternoon. Almost fell asleep in the comfy leather chairs- although I did manage to make myself stay awake as I'd paid a small ransom for the tickets! Anyways, as many of you will know, the cinema is in the heart of Notting Hill- which means Portobello Market on Saturdays...every shoppers dream- and H is no shopper...soooo we walked along the back roads and took the closest detours to avoid the throngs of tourists and fruit sellers (yellers?) - which meant we got to see all the lovely sights of the Notting Hill housing estates (read: crappy multi-level brick 70's builds with horrible mesh fencing and lots of locked gates, bikes with no wheels, old crapped out cars and dead vegetation).

I did manage to squeeze into a shop or two (while H waited outside of course) and we got to travel in style on the Hammersmith and City Line. Lots of funky smells, a man folding a pizza menu into an origami crane and a sweet little girl (who, on the 15 minute journey managed to consume a whole packet of starbursts - I bet she's still not sleeping either!)!

So I'm still undecided about the movie. I liked it, and unlike some people didn't fall asleep- although it was quite long and there was an intermission in the middle- just like in Maroochydore! H returned from using the facilities to proclaim that 'the Joker is here'- to which I replied 'Heath Ledger died months ago, fool' and he bet me £5 that the Joker was in fact out in the back of the cinema. Of course I got a bit excited as I thought maybe there was something special happening- silly me. It turned out to be this crazy woman with peroxided back-combed hair for miles, Tammy Faye-Baker make-up in a banana polyester pant suit from 1982...’hello, this is 1982 calling, I’d like my strides back now please’. I conceded that I had lost the bet. And I didn't get a photo- if I ever see her again I promise to do my sneakiest best!