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Showing posts from November, 2017

On accidentally becoming a cat person

Building a new life in a new city can throw challenges at you both big and small. Most challenges are to be expected; learning a new public transport system, setting up a bank account, finding the local pub, getting a job, making friends. Some are not; Brexit, realising your old winter clothes are a laughing stock when compared to ACTUAL winter clothes, Brexit, knowing your phone calls home will always mean one side of the conversation is just waking up while the other is on its way to being drunk and never the two wavelengths shall meet, Brexit.
What I hadn’t planned on were challenges that would fundamentally change who I was. And in that respect, there is one challenge needs addressing, and has needed addressing for some time. For the eagle-eyed amongst you, you will have noticed a certain someone who has crept into my Twitter feed and onto my ‘currently reading’ page. And for those of you who have spotted this certain someone, and also know me well, will surely be wondering WHAT TH…

On returning to where it all began

A turned corner. An intake of breath. A moment that hurtles you back through time and space, leaving a trail of goose bumps on your arms and tears prickling at your eyes. Your stomach is a twisted pile in the pit of your stomach and the emotion of it all threatens to drown you like a tidal wave. That, or you just have your period.
Such was the emotional rollercoaster ride at the start of my week as I decided to take myself on an as-spontaneous-as-I-get trip to Bath. A city that was the backdrop to my first UK life. A time so long passed that I need to be very still, and concentrate very hard, in order to conjure the thread of the beginning of a hint of a memory from that time.
I blame alcohol.
But nostalgia for a previous life wasn’t the reason for my sudden urge to buy a bus ticket (for who can afford the train when you’re a writer) to England’s South West. No. The urge was embedded in my growing fear that I was forgetting the city entirely. A problem that wouldn’t be a problem had it…

On my week with Christian Slater and Amy Sherman-Palladino

As I settle back into a fulltime writing routine (the need for employment sated by savings from a recent contract position), I find that I have also thrown myself back into the cultural pulse of London. The last few weeks have been a rush of theatre, literary events, screenings and exhibitions, each event offering injections of inspiration that get me through the highs and lows of my writing stints at the library.
This week was no different. Except it was.
There is a reason for the lateness in my posting. There were two events I was scheduled to attend this week and I knew I needed to experience both before writing my latest blog post. Because this week, of all weeks (what with women raising their voices against abuse and thus causing the patriarchy to whimper and begins its implosion) I attended events that were very much led by the different sexes.
I didn’t plan it that way, it just happened.
Firstly, Monday night. Months ago, I secured theatre tickets for Glengarry Glen Ross. I did t…

On the highs and lows of a London weekend

With little in the way of coordinated physical mobility, I stumbled out of my flat at some point during Sunday’s early evening. My destination? Earth’s core. Well, the Southbank Centre if you want to ground this blog post in reality, but it could have been Earth’s core for how far away it felt, and how improbable that I would arrive in one piece.
Such is the game of London Cultural Roulette. Buy a ticket in advance for an amazing event you know will make you a better person, and only hope you don’t get completely sozzled the night before so you’re not half dying en route to said event.
It seemed particularly galling that on this occasion, the event I was headed to was part of the London Literature Festival (my people! My type of festival!) and the reason I felt like death was hovering over my shoulder was because of freakin’ Halloween. An event that has become so mired in commercialism I’m surprised Valentine’s Day hasn’t thrown a tantrum.

And so after patting myself on the back, and fr…