"That's a Little Melodramatic, Dear."

So says my mother, when I said I must say "so long" to every brick and cobblestone of Londontown before I go. Maybe. But 1) I am melodramatic, and 2) it doesn't make the sentiment any less true.

I moved here in 2008 because my love affair with the city was not over. I had not been ready to leave when I moved to Vancouver in September 2005. The excitement and the flutter I got inside passing through Piccadilly Circus, walking alongside the Thames on the Southbank, sitting in Leicester Square, joining the crowds in Shoreditch on a Saturday night, sitting on the back of Edy's bike, idling on the Victoria Embankment waiting for Big Ben to chime-I couldn't escape it. Vancouver and all its sensible qualities - incomparable standard of living, work/life balance, proximity to family, not to mention its stunning natural beauty - well, it all fell short and didn't have the sparkle of London. I came back to London to recapture that. I was in love with a city, and settling anywhere else felt like adultery.

As I have blogged ad nauseum, the working culture, the freefall of the recession, the difficult parts of living in a city this size - well, it eventually made it difficult for London and I to get along. And while I will always love London, I'm no longer in love. The initial thrill is gone. I see its shortcomings, and this has dulled the brilliance of the qualities that originally attracted me to the place. I realised it the other night, waiting for the boat home, as tourists excitedly asked me to take their picture in front of Tower Bridge. Every day, I stand on the wharf at Tower Hill, looking at the very best parts of London, to the east, west and south. And I feel...nothing. The sense of history registers on an intellectual level, but the visceral, emotional response I used to get just from...well, being here, it's waned.

So it's time to move on, but it doesn't make the parting easy. The love will always be there. I am conscious that it may be some time before I return to London, and I feel certain that I will never live here again. When I visit it will be to hit the high points, not the "Londoner's London" that I was so eager to come back for. I have walked this city backwards and forwards. And it is those streets and sights that I need to say goodbye to. And yes, it will be sad. There will be a grieving process.

The upside? That flutter, and excitement that seem to have slipped through my fingers: well, I feel that way about Vancouver now. I have a new city to be in love with, a new energy to be fascinated by.

26 Days


Borough Market
Originally uploaded by danwithatwist
Things to do before I leave London:

1. Visit Borough Market, eat giant meringue and drink approximately 8 lattes from Monmouth Coffee.

2. Stock up on Jessie Chorley stuff at Broadway Market.

3. See a couple more plays (don't care which, or when).

4. Say "so-long" to every brick and cobblestone.

5. Have a pint at the Churchill Arms.

6. Take advantage of Late-Night Thursdays at Tate Modern.

Auntie Enforcer.

I am "Auntie" to a number of lovely kids. No, not my brother's kids (as there are none of which I am aware), but kids of cousins, friends, and the like. Note: if you're in the market for an Auntie, I tend to be a good choice as I'm absolutely nuts about kidlets. In fact, my good friends Betta and James have a new baby boy due in the next few weeks, and whether they like it or not, I am appointing myself as Auntie Dan. Prepare to be adored, Baby Wishart; I'm adding you to my Auntie roster.

Apparently I am being used as a force of discipline in some of my chitlins' lives, in absentia. Last week I was on the phone to my cousin Bob while her kids were having lunch. Her little boy Owen, who is 4, decided to "re-arrange" his plate, which meant dumping the contents of his lunch onto his placemat, pouring salad dressing on top of the pile, and then mushing Ritz crackers and sprinkling them over the dish as garnish.

Bob stopped what she had been saying to me mid-sentence and sharply said, "Stop that! You stop that. right. now!"

"What's going on?!" I exclaimed.

She described what O. was doing, indignant. I tried not to laugh as she continued to exhort him to stop right now, or he'd have to go to his room. I think he carried on blithely while she threatened various punishments.

"Auntie Dani thinks that is disgusting," she hissed at him. Of course, I had said no such thing; I tried to giggle away from the receiver, just in case he could hear me. "Auntie says that you will never get to eat lunch with the Queen with manners like that."

The child apparently stopped messing with his plate immediately.

So, I guess I now have to carry on with this apparently already-established illusion that, as I live in London, I am close personal friends with Her Majesty, as it appears to have been a running theme in O's etiquette lessons. I wonder what else I've pontificated on from afar: "Auntie says you MUST wear a jacket. The Queen ALWAYS wears a jacket." "The Queen's guests ALWAYS eat their carrots." "You must use the big-boy potty if you are going with Auntie to the Queen's house."

Hilarious. After he's told the truth about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny I'll let him know I don't actually know the Queen, although I have been to her house, and I think it's safe to say the big-boy potty is an absolute must.

Kitty Cat Drama

I was followed home from the boat tonight by an orange fluffy kitten who looked very much like Currie as a baby, all fluffy tail and long hair.  She followed me right to my front door, and was clearly scared and out of her element.  She was not wearing a collar and did not appear to know where home was.  

I was immediately worried.  I sat on my front stoop, even though it was midnight, and waited and watched to see if the little cat would find home.  She ran nervously from building to building, sniffed hedges, skulked between cars in the car park.  Whenever she saw me looking, she would run to me and sit on my lap.  Meanwhile, Currie was in the front window looking down at the action in the garden below and wondering what the hell was going on (and asking in a very loud meow).  

I didn't know what to do.  As I sat there, wondering if I should bring the cat inside, Orange Kitty ran into a hedge and didn't reappear for several minutes.  I thought this meant she belonged to one of the houses behind the hedges, so I went inside to Currie, and got ready for bed.  However, as I went to pull down my bedroom blind, I looked into the garden and there was Orange Kitty, still clearly trying to get her bearings and not sure which way to go.  I sighed, and went downstairs.  I opened the front door of the building and Orange Kitty came barreling towards me.  I picked her up and she didn't protest, and we went upstairs.  

I nervously opened the door, with Orange Kitty in my arms.  Currie meowed, but didn't seem to understand what I was holding.  I backed into the spare bedroom, intending to deposit Orange Kitty and shut the door quite quickly.  However, before I could do so, Orange Kitty had spotted Currie, dug her claws into my arm, and hissed.  Currie's ears immediately went back on her head and she hissed as well.  I hastily slammed myself and Orange Kitty in the spare room, with Currie howling outside.  Orange Kitty retreated to the far corner of the room, to the windowsill, and sat there hissing at me, too.

Great.

I inched out of the spare room.  Currie sat there looking confused and meowing piteously, but not angry.  She allowed me to pet her, give her treats, and tell her she was a good cat.  We went to the kitchen.  I put together a water and food tray and a litter box for Orange Kitty, with Currie on my heels.  I thought that, given the foxes that appear on a regular basis in my front garden, it was best to keep Orange Kitty inside tonight and look for her owner, or call the RSPCA, tomorrow.  I put Currie in my bedroom with the door shut, and then opened the door to the spare room, to deposit Orange Kitty's supplies.

Orange Kitty was not looking happy.  She could hear Currie howling from the next room over and was clearly frightened.  She hissed at me but let me pet her.  I settled her in, turned off the light, and then shut the door.  I then opened the door to my bedroom.

Currie ejected herself from the room, ears back, spitting at me.  Actually, she looked rabid.  She had found her angry place in the 5 minutes she had been quarantined in my bedroom and was no longer playing the victim.  She was on the warpath.  She immediately stationed herself outside Orange Kitty's room and howled at the door.  I could hear poor little Orange Kitty scrambling to hide in the spare room.  Unfortunately, given that the apartment is nearly empty, there was nowhere for her to go, and she backed further and further into the windowsill.

I thought I would leave Currie to her own devices and get ready for bed.  However, as I walked past Currie towards the bathroom, she hurled herself at me with such force, and with such viciousness, growling, that I was actually frightened of her.  There was no touching her, or even getting within 5 feet of her.  After several attempts, I realised that Currie was getting more and more angry by the second.  She was actually on the offensive now, and was lunging forward to claw at me.  Thank goodness I was wearing jeans and Ugg boots up past my ankles, because I think she would really have hurt me, otherwise.  There was no consoling her.

I came to the horrible conclusion that, best intentions aside, I couldn't let Orange Kitty hide out here tonight.  I had to return her to the garden and hope that she found her way home, or at least found a safe hedge where she could hide from foxes.  My eyes filled with tears at the thought of it, but watching my own cat turn into Old Yeller was scaring the crap out of me. Knowing that Currie was going to be subjected to another traumatic world trip in a month, and knowing that her current temper and skittishness are direct after-effects of the last world trip, I felt insanely guilty and like a horrible pet-parent.  I also felt like a horrible human being for abandoning Orange Kitty outside.  There was no way I was going to feel good in this situation.

Somehow I herded Currie into her room.  Again, she coiled and sprang at me.  I had to shout; she hissed, she spat, she clawed, but somehow I got her into the bedroom and shut the door.  Then I heaved a sigh, opened the spare room door, and told Orange Kitty she had to go.  She didn't want to move, as I am sure she thought Currie would be lying in wait if she took a step outside the spare room.  I inched towards Orange Kitty, who was also hissing at this point, and picked her up.  Apologising the whole way, I walked her down the stairs, opened the front door, and put her on the stoop.  She dashed away from me, and then into the garden, in the opposite direction of where she had come from when she initially followed me home.  I told her I hoped she would be okay, and went upstairs to Currie Cat.  

I got into the flat and opened the bedroom door.  Currie moaned and hissed, but did not attack. She skulked out of the room and into the spare room, smelling traces of Orange Kitty and howling at me.  I decided it was best to leave her alone and tried to get into my own bedroom without making her too angry.  She has spent the last 20 minutes alternately meowing, growling, hissing, and eating the food I had put out for Orange Kitty.  She has just come and rubbed her face along my foot, which I think is an apology.   I have already said sorry to her a million times, and have looked anxiously out the window saying silent apologies to Orange Kitty that I couldn't keep her safe.

It's clear that Currie is an Alpha Cat.  Not only that, an Alpha Cat with a temper.  It's pretty obvious to me that I will never be able to have another animal while Currie is around: it wouldn't be fair to her or to a newcomer.  Whether this is just something that has always been in Currie's personality or whether this is something I have cultivated by doting on her and spoiling her rotten, I don't know, but I know for sure my house will have to be a one-cat house in the Age of Currie.


One of my favorite photos.


Grandma F and her sisters, originally uploaded by splityarn.

My cousin Caro has created a kind of archive of family photos on Flickr. One of my favorite photos has always been this one, of my maternal grandmother Annette (second from left) with her sisters Aline, Helen and Susie. I once had a plan to get it blown up and printed on canvas as I thought it would be good karma to live under the watchful gaze of all these matriarchs. I still think it's a good plan. I'll have to get on it when I get home. If anyone can recommend a good repro place in Vancity, let me know. For some reason my Flickr/blog software is cutting off part of poor Auntie Susie, but the picture in its entirety is just really lovely.

To Nelly or Not to Nelly


IMG_1654.JPG, originally uploaded by danwithatwist.

OK, Heather says that the pop star the Iraqi jazz engineer thought I resembled was Nelly Furtado. Heather has always said I looked like her; I mostly think it's because for most of my life I've had dark hair and I tend to rock the hoop earrings quite a bit. But I still don't see it. THIS was the Nelly-est photo I could find of myself, taken in May 2008.

I'm not seeing it.

Thoughts?

Silly Me, There is Always Something to Write About...

...when one lives in the country that is buckling under the weight of its own bureaucracy and so-called efficiency, choking on procedures and call centres and protocols. Gah. How DO they do it?

I've never, ever understood why doing anything at all in England is so, so, so time consuming and complicated. Want a bank account? Sure. Walk into a bank, and fill out a form (well, actually, they fill it out for you). Then come back in three days to discuss the form with someone. Then, in five business days, your account will be open. But you must wait seven business days to receive your convenience card by post. And then, you must call to confirm you've received the convenience card. Then, they will mail you the PIN so that you can actually use said card. That will take seven business days, too. And if you want telephone banking, you'll need to sign up, after you're received your PIN. They'll send you a new number for that in five business days, and the PIN for that will arrive five business days after that. Online banking? Have you had your account for six months yet? Then forget it. When I opened my account, the genius who apparently had to fill in my form for me wrote down my name as "Danielle NARIE Lemon." Now, Narie is an interesting middle name, but it isn't mine. Mine is "Marie." So I had to repeat the entire process in order to get cheques and cards issued in the correct name.

I'm not kidding.

It also took me approximately 6 weeks at each address to get internet service, despite, when I moved to my new address, informing them 6 weeks in advance that I wanted, NEEDED, my broadband set up when I arrived. I pay a premium for "high speed" internet. I did an online test today to see what my download/upload speed was. It was 365 kbps. In the UK government's recent Digital Britain report, it proclaimed that all citizens should have, and that the entire country will by 2012 have access, at least a 2MBps connection. That's the minimum. I pay for up to an 8MBps connection.

And don't get me started on the passwords: I have a password for every utility account, three for Sky (because you know you definitely need a separate password for your phone, internet and cable service, even if they are all coming from the same provider and you pay for them all on one bill), a password for black cabs, a password for Addison Lee, a password for entering my office after hours, a password for my Tesco Clubcard points, even a password for my Password keeper on my Blackberry, which has perhaps been the singularly most useful application ever installed on a PDA.

Anyway, letting agents have been in and out of my flat for the past couple of weeks showing the property for rent. I warned the agent over the phone that there are two switches in my front hall: one is the light switch, and one is the switch for my hot water tank. The hot water tank switch, I said, also has a red light on it. "Don't touch that one," I said. " I need that one to stay on so I have hot water." "Not a problem," she said. "And be careful of the cat," I added.

Last Friday I arrived home quite late and noticed that the little glowing red light wasn't on on the hot water tank. I walked over to inspect, and sure enough, it had been switched off. I heaved a sigh and flipped it back to the on position, but no light. I flipped it back and forth a few times. No dice. The fuse had blown.

On Saturday morning, I called British Gas. The Landlord pays for a 24 hour Home Care emergency call-out service from British Gas, which they provide even though my energy is actually supplied by a competitor company, EDF (I was a BG customer at my old flat, but when I informed them I was moving to this address, and asked to transfer my service, they informed me that since the previous tenant was with EDF, I had to stay with EDF for 30 days, then inform EDF I wanted to transfer to BG, pay an account closure with EDF, then open a new account with BG. Understandably, I think, I lost the will to live and never switched back to BG).

Anyway, this Home Care account means BG is to show up if anything goes wrong in the flat in terms of the plumbing, electrical, you name it. I phoned, explained the problem, and asked them to send someone round to replace the fuses. I was told someone would be there between 12 and 6. This was fine, as I was home all afternoon cooking for dinner guests. Not a problem.

I got a call at 5:30 from the engineer. "I'm in Streatham," he shouted at me over a very bad mobile connection. "Do you know where Streatham is? It will take me an hour to get there!" "That's not a problem," I said, "I would very much like to have some hot water." What I didn't know is that BG had already called The Landlord in Manchester (even though the Home Care account is in my name) to check that it was "really an emergency" because they didn't want to send someone out for a "false alarm." As his wife was in the middle of having a baby, he was none too pleased at the interruption.

My guests arrived at 6:30. The engineer arrived at around 7 pm. I was in the middle of cooking dinner at that point, and trying to entertain. He replaced the fuses, but also felt, that while my guests were in the other room waiting, he should a) give me a lecture on how much he doesn't like working on the weekends on call for BG, b) reminisce with me how much better his job in his home country of Iraq was, c) give me a crash course in British electrical wiring, and d) speak to me at length about the pop star he couldn't name but he felt I resembled, whether I should learn guitar or piano, and about his own career as a semi-professional guitar player at some seedy jazz club in Hammersmith. While this was all fascinating, I was quite relieved when at 8 pm he replaced the fuses, had me sign a piece of paper, and was off. The lovely glowing red light was winking at me again. I'd have hot water.

Sunday morning. After a bit of a lie-in, I decided it was time for a long bath. As I went to the linen closet to fetch a towel, I noticed that the little glowing red light was, sadly, off. Hopeful that perhaps the engineer had simply turned it off before he left, I peered at the switch. Nope. It was definitely in the "on" position. But no water. The fuse had blown again. There was just enough hot water left for me to have a quick shower, but a bath was definitely out of the question.

I called BG again. They promised to send an engineer first thing Monday morning. "Fine," I said. "I'm actually home all day that day." I was, because the movers were coming to pack my things and ship them to Canada. The engineer arrived shortly after the movers left on Monday afternoon, and replaced the fuses again. He warned me that I would need to only turn on the red switch when I needed hot water, about "an hour before I needed it." I argued this was impractical. In the mornings that I am not at the gym, I get up and shower immediately. I couldn't wait an hour for the tank to heat up! He shrugged, had me sign the piece of paper saying he'd done his job, and off he went. I flipped the switch to "on", and sat down to wait an hour so I could finally have a warm shower, which I eventually got.

Tuesday morning. Time to go to work. I got up an hour early, and flipped the switch to "on." No red light. I flicked it back and forth.

Blown again.

I emailed The Landlord. "I can call BG out again," I typed furiously into my Blackberry, "but what is the point if they will only replace the fuses?" He asked me to try one more time. Unfortunately, I was absolutely swamped at work all week, working late every night, and had no opportunity to take an afternoon or morning off to wait for an engineer. So I spent the week carting my shower things to the office so I could get ready at the gym and avoid the ice-shower at home. On the positive side, it meant I made it to the gym every day this week instead of my usual twice-weekly jaunts. It also, however, meant that I had to get up at 5:30 to make the 6 am boat into the City, so I'd have enough time to work out and shower before getting to the office.

Anyway. I called yesterday and explained the situation to BG. "You can't just come and fix the fuses," I said. "You need to look at the tank, as there is obviously something wrong with that connection, perhaps the element inside the tank has shorted out." (I had been briefed by The Landlord on what to say, as truthfully, this would never have occurred to me-I would just have broken down in tears and wailed unintelligibly). The call centre attendant was very sympathetic, spoke to her manager, and booked an appointment for today, Saturday. "I do apologise," she said. I was told that an engineer would arrive between 12 pm and 6 pm today. This effectively meant I was stuck at home all day, but I wanted, I needed, my hot water. So I sat and waited.

It's now 10:51 pm.

I don't know why I waited so long to call them back, but it just became a battle of wills. I should have just phoned at 6:01 pm and said, "Get. Someone. Here. Now." But no. I thought, "the chatty engineer was late last week. Maybe they'll come at 8." I didn't make any evening plans. I just sat. And waited. And got angrier and angrier. And more indignant. Finally, at 10 pm tonight, I phoned. Someone answered; well, they are supposed to be available 24 hours a day. I icily explained that I had been waiting all day for the THIRD engineer in a WEEK to come and PLEASE provide me with hot water.

"I do apologise," said the attendant. "The next available slots are for Monday between 12 and 6 pm."

"NO," I yelled (and I actually yelled). "I. NEED. HOT WATER. Someone needs to come and FIX THIS. TOMORROW. And I am NOT SITTING AROUND ALL DAY AND WAITING. AND I AM NOT TAKING ANOTHER DAY OFF WORK." Of course this issue had to be referred to his supervisor, and then transferred to another department. Approximately four more "I do apologises" later, I have been assured someone will be here tomorrow morning.

Meanwhile, I've successfully rented an apartment and hooked up all the utilities in Vancouver. I pay more than double my Vancouver rent here in London, but I guess I should have read the fine print: hot water extra.

And the kicker: when they finally agreed to come out tomorrow morning, the attendant said politely, "Is there anything else I can help you with?" I said no, in a slightly more cordial tone, the red mist beginning to fade from before my eyes. "Then can I ask who your current energy provider is? And did you know you could save money if you considered a switch to British Gas?"

I hung up on him.

Uninspired

I don't know if it's because I'm working alot (again), or because I'm basically living in an empty flat with a cat waiting to go home, or what, but I find I have absolutely nothing to say at the moment. I haven't had any weird encounters with random strangers, no London commute dramas, nothing. Everything is just very...beige.

Sigh.

So, uh, if you have a particular subject upon which you'd like me to pontificate, contact me. Because otherwise this e-page might remain blank until further notice, which is a scary thought.

Me, a Cat and a Suitcase.

And a Macbook, of course.

The majority of my worldly possessions left the UK today on a slow boat to Canada. The move is on! It's quite liberating to wave goodbye to all your stuff; ask me in a month and I'll be whining for my books and my Wii and my extra special T-Fal wok and my favoritest Pyrex baking dish, but right now, I feel free as a bird. Currie is sitting in the suitcase. I think she's afraid I'll leave without her. As if I ever could...