sex and the city: part 1

a peek into my london (2019-2021)

I moved to London. It came about quite suddenly, unlike most things in my life. There was a dream somewhere, a longing to be something and an instant coffee addiction that I just couldn’t quit.

London was where the writers were. The filmmakers. Arabica beans and five-pound lattes.

A victim of a complete location overhaul halfway through my childhood, I stayed in the same borough in London in the five years I’ve been here. I’m writing this in a tiny attic in lucky number four: the fourth apartment in a relentless city. There is a candle- one of those large ones from Ikea that smells like clean linen, rows of books, piles of clothes and frameless art.

In celebration of going home for a bit, I’ve decided to do my very own London countdown. A trip down memory lane. London, like how I’ve remembered it thus far. London, I love you. I’ll be back soon.

May 2021, reading Sylvia Plath’s diaries in a community garden.

Cold, cold, sitting in a billion scarves. I was recovering from the joys of finding the right dose of my happy pills. Seemingly, Sylvia was the only sane woman- safe for the fact that she was nestled in my lap in the form of a gigantic 700-page memoir. She had ignited so much in me in the short month I read her. 

It was May, and the smog-filled stalactites had only just thawed. Heavily uninspired by my current course module, I could only count on her. That very evening, I went back home (lucky apartment… two) and wrote what would go onto be stupid girl volume one. 

September 2021, Vegan Restaurant down the block.

When I first moved here, I had no friends save for a boy who talked too much and too frequently. On my way back home, I would pass by this gorgeous establishment. It was a vegan restaurant with a special chalkboard menu and endless groves of happy families and couples laughing underneath dim lighting. The glass was so clean I wished I could press my thumb and sully it- just a little. The boy came and went as they all do, and the restaurant remained.

A year later, I would finally step in, armed with my best friend, our roommate and the guy she was sleeping with. We were an odd bunch but lovable nonetheless. We talked loudly about everything like you only can when you’re 19. It was a simple joy—a reminder of the time gone by.

November 2021, Caffe Nero Plaza

By the time Winter 2021 rolled around, I had moved on to unlucky apartment three, a mouse-infested hell hole in an ex-baroness’ dilapidating estate. The room was gorgeous, with antique furniture, rows of hardbacks, and the occasional brown-nosed visitor. The opulent bathroom boasted gold knobs and elegant vases, but the porcelain basins were tinged with red from my hair. I chopped it off, as one does, and reasoned that this was the place you could only stay in your twenties because rent was good and close to all the things you liked.

I was in the throes of another hapless affair, and my sleep was seriously ruined every night by the obvious rodent problem my landlady refused to address. (She smelled like strong jasmine perfume and painted her talons with jungle red nail paint. I despised her, and the feeling was mutual.) 

The Caffe Nero down the road saw the likes of me every day. The oat milk was an extra 20p, so I drank soy for two months. The lattes were painfully mediocre, but I needed them in my hands as I sat outside. Sometimes, I took my laptop and sent applications to magazines. Somewhere down the line, I began wearing pimple patches and old hoodies. The intimacy I never felt in my relationship bled into the halls of this humble Caffe Nero branch.

I collected drink stamps and milk moustaches until one day, I couldn’t take it anymore. In a fit of anger, I left. The ex-baroness was bitter and cold, hated that I slept in, and sulked around her house like a waifish ghost. Besides, the rest of my life was just about to begin.

(cont. next week!)