So there is a loophole to Clause #789. Again, this was an e-mail that's going up - sorry!!

So I've found a minor loophole to the tights/stockings/panty hose issue here in London.

Hold ups!! Also known as thigh-highs in America, these delightful bits of actual elasticised nylon don't suffer the untold cruelties of sizing and seem to come in a more human array of colors (although darned if there aren't TONS of 'super-shiny' shades of 'American Tan'). The elastic/rubber strips at the top seem to work, if you run one leg (as I did this morning reaching for something) no worries! They come 2 to a pack so you have a better chance of getting through at LEAST two days for £5.50.

There is, however, a downside. Actually 3. The first is that rather than transforming into Giselle Bunchen when I slide these puppies on (ok yank and tug as I'm running late) one must be wary, ladies, that those of a slightly more 'athletic' bent of thigh might come out look like you've wrestled two Christmas hams into netting and sadly those blessed with more than 5% body fat might have the 'bulge factor' around the top. Just avoid looking in a mirror if this is the case. It's better to be a creature of mystery (to yourself at the least!) then see that you are not, in fact, ready to prance down the catwalk.

So that's number 1 and 1.5. Number 2 is that I now must live in mortal fear of risking some busted elastic or a drooping bit of rubber gripping (the poor dears are stretched to their limit) and be hustling down the street only to note that I now have a leg warmer of stocking. And because I stretched out the tops everyone on the street will know that my upper thigh is larger than Posh Spice's head. Twice over. Which brings me to number three. Rather than the naked chicken hopping dance (see previous post) one must now adopt the 'I'm trying to get down the street whilst pretending to hold a dime between my legs' stride. Think of a time when you had lots of shoppings bags and DESPERATELY needed a restroom. That thighs-pressed-together with a hint of sidle and swish. It's not so much a slinky stride of confidence as, well, you've busted the elastics in your pants.

So there it is. A loophole with which to hang yourself. I'll let yall know (or check Youtube) if disaster strikes whilst walking across the stage today at LSE!!!!

Cheerio from the Office Drone,

AoY

On a side note I have found that Yes, they stay up. However you might get some Indian rugburn style friction working between your skin and the elasticised tops. Using suspenders? The hooks bite into your bum/thigh if you sit for any amount of time in a chair. Do we honestly need further proof that no sane woman EVER invented these damn things!!!

This got quite the reaction and many of my brilliant friends had their thoughts to add on the topic:

From DM:
OK...I HAD to comment! There are actually several sidebars here
1. they are called 'tights' in this country because stockings are what you wear with a garter belt...side, side bar...notice I said garter belt not...suspenders which is what the brits call them; so never never NEVER go into the mens department and ask for suspenders for your husband....they are still laughing.
2. If they sold DKNY or Haynes they would be £18 a pair...no I am NOT kidding... fine 'tights' are anywhere from £18 - £25! AoY is clearly being a good girl on her budget...I, however, am not!
3. When they have runs in them several of my British friends have pointed out the "cut the one leg off each pair with the run" back to AoY's note...they are so fricking tight...can you imagine wearing 2 pair simultaneously...no #@!*#@*ing way!

From REP:
Ha...... Oh my god! Right now I'm just really glad that I will never, EVER have a job which requires me to wear panty hose, tights, stockings, suspenders, or any other crazy name they can come up with for them! I hate the American version -- can't imagine they could guess much worse, but based on your experiences, I guess they do.....

From HRK:
Hye AoY-- just do what I do, get a little crazy and go without...stockings that is... or if you get really wild (mom, shut ur eyes) go commando! its what all the smu girls are doing-- you'll save a bundle! Hah! I'm totally joking-- why not make fun of us while I still can?!

From MEC:
Wait a minute, our crotches are not supposed to be down by our knees yet?Just kidding! My main concern from this whole story is the fact thatyou have a job that requires panty hose every single day!

From HJR:
And I want to know why your e-mail is numbered #789 and why I have not received the other 788! Had I received those, I am convinced I would not require massive doses of medication to get through law school.

I think we should collaborate on a book entitled "Why You Need a Sense of Humor to Be Female". I KNOW it would be a bestseller. Lets create a bestseller, get rich, and then sit around never having to wear pantyhose again or anything item that remotely constrains one's bodily parts ... wait! I am doing that already!

To those who received this e-mail, sorry for the repeat but figured it desereved a place.

#789

In the past five days I've run £20 worth (That's 40 US dollars or 5 pairs) of panty hose and stockings. It's like they RUN (no pun intended) towards the nearest sharp object, including my finger nails. I've actually been reduced to wearing torn hose to the office. I've bought the drug store hose, the department store hose, and the £1.90 special support hose (I was running late and desperate) from the geriatric pharmacy up the road. And, as Dede and I have pointed out, the Brits seems to get their fun in devising panty hose that fit no normal woman. They either proffer a Size Small (thanks for playing that game kids) pointing that while you're far out of the weight range you are in fact quite short (thanks so much for that, again) so that when your doing the naked chicken hop around your flat at 6.45AM you realize that there is only enough cheap material to have the crotch hit your knees (maybe when I'm 90 this will be the case but I have a few more feet yet to go!) or that the waistband is now an ovary belt as it cannot contain that Christmas pudding you ate last week.

Then there is the kindly lady who steers you into the Large section, pointing out that whilst you might not fit perfectly in the weight category, you might (just might) have longer legs than your mere height suggests...Suddenly you have Jumpsuit Stockings. At least if I'm in a plane crash situation I could devise a parachute out of the extra fabric. Suddenly your crotch MUST be bagging to your knees as the double bow you've made in the waistband won't stay put. But is just as likely that, depending on the evil genius at the factory, a Large just might in fact fit like a small (see: naked chicken hop above)

I must further point out here that often there is no elastic in the actual tights and you just sort of roll them on and wiggle until your legs, now seven shades of mud or shiny plastic flesh (the Brits love them some shiny stockings) are somewhat covered. It is highly likely that your crotch is actually located on the back of your right thigh (maybe the Brits missed anatomy courses). And while the naked chicken hop entertains the neighbors you may also eventually expire from dehydration as you live in dread of needing a toilet and thus the prospect of hopping about the water closet and prompting security to assume someone MUST be up to hanky panky in the ladies room because of the banging and cursing and random flushing (that would be the automatic sensor or your head as you attempt to coax an extra inch from the ankle area). And men bitch about dress shoes?!?!

On the positive side I must point out that British stockings have the amazing fortitude to not develop gaping holes (unlike our American friends). Whether due to a lack of elastic, the sheer lack of any real structure resembling a leg, or their alternate purpose to net a fleeing wild animal, I can make it through the day with about three holes and no one really notices. I also LOVE the color descriptions. DKNY and Hanes (unavailable in most of the UK) have Tan, Beige Natural, Black, Taupe, Nude and Putty. In the UK you have the option of American Tan, Meditteranean Glow, Shiny Natural, Shiny American, Natural Tan, Ebony and Mahogany. Basically not skin tones seen in nature.

However, did I mention that the Mediums, which logically fall between the Small and Large size, can be one or the other, both or none? You might have the legs of a Small with the girdle of a XXL, or Rosanne Barr legs with a childlike bum (I almost said fanny but while this might be the one time both uses of the word could apply, I'd be censored in the newspapers). I have finally discovered why Boots (the pharmacy) sells stockings in a 2-For-1 package. One is the pair with with you attempt to survive the work day. The second is to string yourself up with or provide the looney bin with an extra set of restraints.

(On a side bar - it's a bit depressing that I've reached a place in my life where stockings are required every day...)
So that's the latest dispatch from Fulham...men clearly made stockings so that the glass ceiling would be all slippery as we break it :) Hope everyone is well and it made you smile!

Home Sweet Home…
Dorm Sweet Dorm…
Hovel Shitty Shovel…

What is an abode for the urban professional? Is it a place to store our things now that the parents have moved beyond their empty-nest feelings and suddenly reclaim their lives (and attics/garages/basements) and return to the days of leisure time before they decided to bring new lives into the world? Or is it our first real stab at independence. Look Mom and Dad, I’ve MADE it! I’m an ADULT! (Until we need help or money that is).

But regardless of financial situation, first job status or a looming quarterlife crisis those first few shoeboxes represent our initial attempt to strike out into the new world.

My first apartment in Washington, DC came with my roommate from college, my mother’s guest bed, my grandmother’s furniture and my childhood stuffed animal. V and I painted walls, got lost on the Metro and slowly explored the urban jungle. That first ‘adult’ sleepover had resonance when it was no longer class that came with the morning light but work. I received Home Depot gift certificates, pots and pans from William-Sonoma, linens and wine from my parents in a bid to domesticate (and perhaps lure) my future unwitting spouse into a comfortable nest. Our cozy little home remained untouched for two years even when V moved to California and I stayed behind with Dave, an *ahem* Tarheel graduate who moved in and brought the better TV, finally setting up a working wireless signal, barstools and beer mugs. But the walls stayed blue and ‘home’ remained in Arlington.

Apartment Numero Due saw a momentous move 4.3 miles over to Courthouse and into my first living situation. I had only realized a few days prior that my new building also housed my first DC crush-an English captain who worked at the British Embassy. What can I say? It’s all about the accent (as I recently attempted at a drinks party to convince my guy friends in London that moving ANYWHERE in the States would be tantamount to importing catnip for the female, and perhaps male, masses). 1320 N. Veitch had the post-1995 sterility of fancy looking floors and doors but cheap walls covered in white paint with that pale muddied-cream floor-to-floor carpet. Benefits included a balcony, proximity to work and friends, my own stuff, gas stove and oven, tile floors instead of linoleum and my first walk-in closet in over a decade. The downside included the cheap walls, a gas log fireplace that would also set off the fire alarm, a fire alarm so sensitive that baking a potato meant that clearly the apartment was about to go up in flames, expensive garage parking, and a crowded pool area populated by the cast of Laguna Beach on the weekends. Far from being lonely I rarely spent a full week in residence (thanks law firm) and sadly waved goodbye to the copious storage and wall space. I also had managed to steal free Internet and cable channels thus lowering the burden of living alone.

Moving across an ocean to a foreign country means adjusting perspectives, attitudes and comfort zones. Living in Italy I adjusted to insufficient heat, little hot water, soaring ceilings and terra cotta, bougainvillea and Nino’s home cooking. Life in a German hotel meant smoking rooms, polyester sheets, questionable showers that contained a soap/shampoo/cleanser (and probably disinfectant), a skyline of more snow or surgically implanted buildings of glass and chrome with sharp edges and flat planes. Every now and again those crafty Germans would place colour laminated plastic or paint-coated metal at random intervals (correction-the Germans are never random. It was carefully planned and designed to appear whimsical whilst always fitting into the proper working hierarchy). Move beyond the city and you find the gingerbread cottages of the Brothers Grimm in the Black Forest and the surprisingly ornate (if dark) fairy-tale castle spearing up into the clouds.

But my point is this – don’t move to Europe expecting everything to be as it was in America. My old flatmate (yes one does refer to London apartments as flats) struggled over finding decent drip coffee. Londoners prefer to make an espresso and add water (many call it an Americano; I call it shitty British espresso with tap water). I fruitlessly searched for Pam cooking spray. We both struggled at times with the 3 storey walk-up and 1970s furniture that looks suspiciously like Laura Ashley briefly went into the home furnishings sector before rightfully returning her chintz to pinafores. Another note: London does not use central heating or air conditioning. Yes, it exists. Yes, some buildings MAY tell you something is air-conditioned. It is not, however, the same as good old GE (or Scana) powered hot and cold. Our water heater ran out after 5 minutes. I literally had an instruction for visitors on how to operate our shower to maximise the hot water. The windows didn’t have screens but needed to stay open to combat mustiness (consequently we sometimes received unwanted visitors) Our little space heaters ran up our electric bill and threatened to melt the curtains. The washing machine took 2 hours to wash and 1.5 hours to steam (ahemm, dry) a load of laundry. We hung everything on chairs and hooks and in general lived in relative comfort. From my window a private garden replete with lawn tennis and benches could be seen and the happy screams of children echoed in my ear every Saturday at 9AM. It was a good year and you just…adapt. But we also had a lovely private street out of a Hollywood-movie idea of gentrified London living, a private park to shelter us from traffic sounds and less than an hour’s walk to downtown, Hyde Park, Harrod’s and the river. It’s a reward/sacrifice system that applies to most of our lives.

I’m still 10 minutes late everywhere in London because I never quite see the bird that jumps on the tracks that then fouls of the District Line for 6 hours coming. After taking on a job at a London consulting firm it was time to strike out once again for that Carrie Bradshaw charming one bedroom for little money in a great location flat.

I will spare everyone the details of flat hunting as it is a global blight. There should be a website somewhere, somehow, that allows you to type in EXACTLY what you want, how much you want to pay, when you want to move and they handle the rest from the leasing agreements to the packing to the schlepping. Oh the schlepping involved in moving without a car. I nearly rented one for the week until Dede pointed out the insanity (stupidity? mindlessness?) of driving and parking in London.

For those looking in London, there is a phenomenon called The Bedsit. A bedsit is just that. It may be a Murphy bed, or a pull-out couch (see Match Point) or a real bed and it might even have a kitchenette but there is always a trade-off. Kitchen but no bathroom. Shower but no toilet. Washing machine but no window. Bathroom but no kitchen. I think of bedsits as the depressing pinnacle of those who live in an expensive city, work long hours for decent pay and still can’t afford a pot to pee in. Imagine my (well, imagined) good fortune at finding a relatively cheap space with all necessary items and furnishings in a great neighbourhood that I love!

Casa di Wandsworth is actually in Fulham, close to the dodgy end but also close to the celebs. It is on the ground floor and may have some security issues (such as a broken front door to the building, locks a five year could undo, a walkway straight into my living room via the trash area and a general lack of bars or fences to ward off burglars. But it is painted-again blue, and it has a washer and its own bathroom.

But like any old and shoddily-maintained room, it has its quirks. One could start with the smell. The previous tenant was a smoker and the whole has an eau-de-decaying rot that makes the place seem a bit odorous. Buyers’ remorse definitely set in as I stood by the world’s smallest loveseat that reeked of wet dog and inhaled lingering tar and carbon dioxide and had the thought that I might have come to reside in the Bates motel. But Southern women are made of sterner stuff. I simply tore up my petticoat for rags and…wait, I mean I went on the Web and researched the best methods to remove cigarette smoke and stains, and then went to five different stores to gather the right collection of candles, Febreeze, Oust, bleach, ammonia, mops, buckets, sponges, essential oils and wine. For those interested you remove cigarette smoke in the following manner.
1. Don’t Move In
2. Repaint the Walls if possible and re-seal the floors. Use Kilz to counteract the base coat and keep the stains from showing thorugh the new paint. Repaint the ceiling as well. Re-wallpaper but strip off old stuff first.
3. Replace subflooring and carpeting
4. Get a HEPA filter but remember that you are putting a deep dent in the ozone layer (these things emit ozone apparently)
5. Scrub every single surface available with ammonia and water; eco-friendlies swear by lemon juice alone.
6. Burn candles
7. Burn incense
8. Get a shaman in to say a few words and burn sage
9. Take away curtains and soft fabrics and replace
10. Drink heavily and leave windows open as much as possible.

I clearly only performed seven hours of Steps 5-7, 9 and 10. So MOST of the smell isn’t noticeable and Mr. Smoker has been forever banished. I sneak into the hall every few days with a bag of baking soda and a can of Oust and go to town. The other tenants either don’t notice or soon expect an anthrax announcement.

Smell defeated and I’m learning all sorts of gymnastic movements to accommodate the reduced size. Here’s where I should probably mention that I pay my electricity directly into a meter. Like a parking meter. Like something out of the Victorian era meter with a turn handle. Upside: It means no monthly bills and the Halil meat vendor down the road knows me by name and starts unwrapping rolls of pound coins on my approach. Downside: Did I mention that the meter is in the world’s most inconvenient spot? Above the kitchenette and it is quite the process.
Ensure that the stove eyes are off.
Swing myself onto the counter but remain crouched as to avoid the long storage shelf above.
Manoeuvre into position with coin in left hand and right hand grasping the edge of the counter (I used to hang onto a coat hook but that broke)
Stick left hand through specially cut-out hole to reach up and manually turn meter into coin-receiving position, feed meter blindly, turn handle and hope it’s enough for the week.
Dismount and convince the neighbours below that I’ve fallen out of bed (oh wait for it).

There are some advantages, however, to living in a small space. The first is that I can dry my hair, reach over into the bathroom and sang a toothbrush or some product, then reach up to my bed to grab my cell phone or book from last night, then into my closet to get my coat, into the kitchen to make and grab my coffee, to the vanity to put on my earrings, the drying line to get my shirt and back into the bathroom to return products and in general tidy up. Now can you do all of that in a normal house?! I should point out here that the shower is quite nice. It’s heated at the site by one of those boxes so no fussing with hot water heaters. On the downside the landlord does like to shut off the rest of the hot water in the flat once a week for 36 hours but so goes – can’t have everything. Plus I tried my hand at DIY and installed roller blinds. Only one tilts a bit and I failed to get the ones that filter out light but they’re up and by God they’re staying up!

And yes, I said UP to the bed. It’s lofted. A bit lower than those lofts of university days (I stil have a few vague memories and scars of just not quite making it there a few times). It is a double bed, not that uncomfortable as I hear firm mattresses are good for the back, and within easy reach of my storage area where I keep extra books and beauty supplies. The downside is that I am, again, living in a loft which I haven’t done in the past 7 years, there is a distinct lack of a bedside table and changing the linens is, in short, a bitch. And do mind the step. I miscounted one morning and reached for the floor on the 2nd step instead of the 3rd. Instant split at 6.30AM. Ouch.

For all of this splendour I pay a nominal sum of £155 a week which includes council tax (see prior postings) and bills except electric. Work that out in UK housing to £750 a month, which puts me in the lower bracket of renters in London and average in NYC. Bet of all, the river is 5 minutes away, it’s a fast jaunt to airports, okay not FAST but faster, and multiple parks and a shopping centre with a Borders! Life is pretty good and I even have a roommate. But that’s for later.

Welcome to the Real World! May you find growth, prosperity and happiness in your new home :)

-AoY

Ahem.

I shall creep into this post slowly after a long long loooong hiatus from blogging, partly due to fear of having personal things leak out onto the web, partly due to nothing super-exciting happening that's postable where I won't A) Offend something B) Call someone out C) Not potentially get in trouble at work and partly because, well, what if it's terrible.

But new year, new (sort of) blog and new determination. This, along with healthy living, not getting fired and having a successful first date are my New Year's Resolution. What're Ya'lls? Oh, and I'm going to attempt to only shop at charity shops, sidewalk markets and discounts - this may result in my not shopping for the next year.

Rather than go through the long and laborious list of 'Things That Have Happened' I'm honoring the tradition of the list (have ya'll noticed a fondness for lists in previous posts?). I also apologise not the next several posts potentially being out of date order. Either something is interesting or not and it might not necessarily have occurred yesterday. So, to channel some late night host that is currently on strike along with every other overpaid writer who whines but is in truth not a lifeblood of our economy (well, they are but might this be a question of society's values rather than a need to have good TV over say, good health care?-I refuse to answer this).
10. Graduated from LSE with Merit (sounds fancy eh) with a MSc in Criminology
9. Took a job at D*~*#** Consulting in London as a UK employee, so it's the ex-pat life for me for a bit
8. Had a few disastrous first dates and encounters that went nowhere
7. Discovered that I in fact have a larger volume of books than clothes
6. Refused to pay my TV license and as such, have no TV (or Internet but that's a monetary issue)
5. Moved to Fulham, near Chelsea, down by the river, in a studio
4. Discovered that my studio is quite small and comes with previous tenants
3. Gained 5 weeks of vacation, free health care (plus dental) and a new laptop for work
2. Have barely traveled (again ££££ issue but this changes) but did have a hair-raising ride through the Highlands with Mama, almost considered buying a bicycle and plan to rent a manual car (which I can't drive) very soon
1. Discovered that as A) an American B) Not enough of a Southerner C) A bit too pudgy for the hot clubs and D) one who took a job from some Brit am not so liked in the UK and beyond. Way to go USA - we're now pariahs/lepers/lichen/fungi/laughingstocks of much of the world. But am determined to change such opinions, but might avoid Pakistan on this year's travel list.

To avoid clutter in the inboxes, inevitable disappointment, and perhaps to remain below the radar, I promise to only send out a link every few months. As much as I'd love to post all day and spend hours combing the Internet for pictures and clips and witty banterings, I sadly still much work and this site is restricted from 8.15-18.30 (so just went there with the 24 hour time).

I further apologise to any men who read this. I'm trying to shoot for an impartial eye of the city but let's be honest, I'm not indulging in group steams or showers at the cricket club and ya'll aren't wearing panty hose to work (ahh, at least I hope not because you're screwed in Britain). Thus take heart that some posts might delight you and merely skip the ones with a booster shot of estrogen.

To add to the list of addendum, apologies and disclaimers, I hereby apologise for a distinct lack of salacious gossip mongering, explicit language (where avoidable) and situations (please don't make me spell this out). My parents and their friends likely read this and while yes, I know, you've seen and done it all (definitely learned that over Xmas break) if you want the full story, give me a shout. Let's let them preserve SOME illusions about kids these days :)

And lastly, spelling/grammatical errors. Look, I went to university. I majored in English. I am a Word Nazi (ask my former flatmate). I also speak British English now. I speak another language. I also work 10 hours a day plus 2 hours of commute in total, gym it up another 2 hours, sleep for 7, thus leaving 3 hours left out of 24. I tried to make every post pristine and lovely and look how many I posted in the past 1.5 years! Henceforth, shout at me when you spot then but other than that, just let it go already! When nominated for a Pulitzer I promise to do more than Spellcheck! Oh, and if you hate (parenthetical inserts), -dashes, (!), (...), (etc.) etc. bite me. Jane Austen has not called for her manuscript back :)

Have I now appropriately made this as un-fun and boring and anti-blog as possible? Good. Let's begin.

Happy 2008 Ya'll from London and beyond!!

So today has been a little bit weird.

First, several people have noted, mentioned or tried (and they shall remain nameless) the "Master Cleanse" aka "Maple Sugar" Diet that Beyonce used to lose 20-22 lbs. in two weeks for Dreamgirls. Curious as to the ingredients and process I searched my beloved Google and found the following account which pretty much summed up everyone else's experiences. Gentlemen, I would not recommend looking at this site unless you have a secret yearning to 'cleanse'. Ladies, this should truly show you how stupid fad diets can be, not to mention what you have to give up to shed some water weight. I love her blog title "Yes, they're fake". He he.

http://yestheyrefake.net/lemonade_diet_cleanse_journal.htm


Onto to bigger and better things. Slept in a tad this morning and braved some drizzle to return a broken heel to Manolo Blahnik. It mysteriously snapped after going out to a club...no clue. So after a brisk 30 minute hike through Fulham towards Sloane Square, down Old Chuch Street where a very cute rare books store awaits my return(!), then down Church Street some more, past tons of huge fancy houses or flats, cross Kings Road in the fabric district until FINALLY the incredibly discreet Manolo Blahnik sign made no effort to entice customers. I rang the bell and attempt to shake off the wet as I was ushered into a tiny one room shoe case with quiet possibly the worst disply of shoes in the history of man. And then I meet her-the Bitch of the SouthWest. Mid-twenties a tad frumpy for her job title, I quickly explained that I needed a bit of help with a broken heel.
Her: (Interrupting) We don't repair shoes here but we can give you a name.
Me: Umm, okay, but I thought you could send them back to the factory if they broke. I bought these in the US.
Her: You'll have to send them to the US and they can help (WTF?)
Me: Umm, okay. Do you happen to have the number? The heel is totally snapped.
Her: (Gazing upon my pitiful broken 'sole') Well, they appear to be Manolos. (Ahem, WTF?)
Me: Yes, they are.
Her: (Interrupting) Did you put this sole on the bottom (yeah, I cobble in my spare time)? That's why the heel broke. Never do this (the guy at Harrods said the same thing).
Me: Ha, yeah-I worked at a law firm and was constantly running around. The leather sole kept wearing down (pardon me for not sipping tea in the back of my Bentley all day and having to work).
Her: Hmmmm. Well, here's the card. Goodbye.
Me: Thanks. (Laughing softly). You know your store is a bit hard to find for a first timer. I didn't realize Old Church Street ran quite so far (biotch).
Her: Hmmm (nose up in air, throat clearing) Well, we've been here for over 30 years so clearly someone people can find us.

Oh it was so on after that. Discretion being the better part of valor I scampered out the tail after noting that their spring collection was hideous (and not at all like those on the US web pages).

Called the NY Manolo store as indicated. Since I had bought them at Neiman's in ATL, was told to call them then hung up on. I'm starting to become less and less of a fan of overpriced fragile little flowers that fall apart. Neiman's put me right through to the manager, she called me right back and ym shoes shall soon be boarding a plane for Atlanta. God Bless the South!!!

Hmmm, what else happened? Took the psychometric tests for Deloitte. Yess, well we shan't mention them again. Went to the gym. And, drumroll please......


T and I get home from the gym and I sit down to check e-mail (it had been two hours, you never know if the Pope's written) only to hear "Oh, yes oh yes ohbabyohbabyyesyesyesYES OH OH GOD YESSSSSSS!" That's right, my randy wall neighbors were at it again. Firmly resolved to convince T of the monkey sex that happens AROUND THE FRIGGING CLOCK I whispered her in. Now, out of rspect for those in love or at least getting lucky, I'll usually put on some music (loudly at times to remind them of THIN WALLS). I wasn't prepared for T to stay guffawing and speaking normally! So now they know that we know. Stranger thing though-we don't ever seem to hear the guy. I hear him talking but maybe he's quiet at other times...okay that's a subject thread not decent for psoting to the general public. T and I are now betting on who it is that we've seen coming out of the building (no pun intended).

Samma arrives tomorrow for a week, Rach comes in less than two weeks and had the most fun with B's visit over the weekend! I think I'm on an endorphine high from running!!!!!!!!!!!

No more uninteresting stories about hospital drama!

Who cares? No one is dying (well we all are TECHINCALLY dying but still…) Onto the fun stuff.

Here are some cool nights out and fun places to go:

December 2006:
Club Movida: T and I meet Michelle, her friend Andressa (another Brazilian model), her boyfriend of the week-cute UBS Swiss banker-his equally cute friends and others at Club Movida near Oxford circus. This was the infamous place for Jay-Z and Beyonce’s party back in the fall that we almost made it into…regardless, it was Andressa’s birthday so we went for dinner and then dancing. Hot Banker Boyfriend has hot French and Luxemborg friends but they quickly ditched us for more faux amies and we never saw them again. Ah, C’est La Vie! Now Club Movida gets written up as being quite posh but here’s the situation: balding middle-aged Middle Eastern or Russian businessmen flash around some cash and bottle sparkler-lit bottles of Champagne to entice the cheap skanky 20 something girls over to their table. We were invited but left after 1.2 minutes when it became clear that the other girls at the table had never even heard of a library or panties. I got a tad overserved and actually spent 18 pounds for a single glass of wine (I darn well had better been a bit tipsy to pay that much) Thankfully, I’ve learned that when the cash runs out, go home! Danced off some more wine then hopped in a cab home. But shock and Awe! T had skipped out earlier and I was pretty much left to my own devices. Now NORMALLY this would lead to a melt down and sheer panic at the thought of standing at a bar or dancing alone in a crowd, but Monsieur Chardonnay and I became close friends and suddenly everyone became much friendlier….I give it 2.5 stars, it was not Pasha but a fun crowd that we went with!

Cute Hotel In SoHo: T’s brother works for a movie company, Matchstick Productions, and they produced extreme skiing and other sport films. They had teamed up with Helly Hansen and had a movie premiere of their latest production in London! T’s brother got us on the list and we were to speak with “Raoul” at the door (I couldn’t remember his exact name but it was Raoul or Pavel or something tough and bouncerey). Imagine our surprise when we show up to a classy joint and “Raoul” the Bouncer is a 5’7 130 lb. bouncy little Englishman in a bright red sweater. It was like expecting the Hulk and meeting Tiny Tim. But he had a list and we proceeded to watch a really, REALLY cool skiing movie whilst splitting some Jack Daniels and Coke (it had been a long week). A little reception followed where SOME people had that extra glass of wine and got super-friendly with the locals (this was NOT me by the way and there were several people in our party but I’ll leave it at that!) but it was pretty low-key. Thanks James for the invite! I must pause to add that I speak with James quite frequently. Whenever we go out someplace cool T must share the love and therefore everyone now knows James. He is apparently due for a visit in April. Interesting….

Bar Not to Be Named: We went to an after-party at some pretty heinous places like club SoHo or Bar SoHo and a few others that were totally MTV tourist traps. Sketchy persons abounded.

The Elk: Fulham Broadway – Crowded, tends to play the exact same bad 80s music every single weekend. BUT it’s near home and the occasional fun people go there. Wait, this is EXACTLY how one could describe the DC prep bar scene….hmmmm maybe I didn’t move at all…..

Ice Skating!!!!!!! One of G’s friends got a house and had a housewarming. Only having met these people while in fancy dress (that would be Halloween costumes) I had some initial trouble reconnecting with former ghouls and vampires but everyone managed. After a light supper we headed out to South Kensington to go ice skating! I love to skate. Really, any sport out doors will do but ice skating is fun. Katarina Witt doesn’t want her moves back but I rarely fall unless pushed. G was not so lucky; an 85 lb. woman took him down with remarkable ease. To his credit she had initially almost hit a kid and he trying to be a gentleman. Southern manners will sometimes bite you in the ass! Now I hate to Stereotype-ok I really love it but it can so limit one’s grasp of the world-but Europeans just have their own method of exercising. It’s a parade of fashion, fashion mistakes, or the plain odd. Black socks with Pumas at the gym. Fashion outfits and denim skirts for ice skating. Because this was a night-time event, teens were on dates, lovers held hands and strands of girls refused to de-link at the expense of other skaters. I heard loads of Americans, easily identified by their North Face and baseball caps, but the euros have OUTFITS. One poor girl had opted to continue the cuffed short trend of the summer and added tights to the ensemble to presumably keep from freezing. Had these not been khaki summer shorts I might not have sniggered but paired with hose, a sweater, mittens and scarf-you asked for it dear. I can’t describe it. Come to Europe-there’s a different vibe. I will pause a brief second and mention the skates. Ouch Ouch Ouch. They clamped on like ski boots and were about as sharp as Bush’s retorts (and that’s from a sort of right tilter, depending…) But oh to be outdoors and not walking or running but moving about! Ahhhhhhhh

January 2007:
Aragon: Parson’s Green – For Michelle’s birthday we met her and friends at another friend’s engagement party (no clue who they were) at this awesome little bar/lounge. It’s like the stereotypical upscale-comfy place. Sort of like how Modern Perk is totally believable and everyone hangs out there for hours on end and no one ever sits on the orange couch. I digress. Wine was fairly cheap by the glass and pretty damn good. They have a food menu that sounds really tasty and much like their neighbor across the park, The White Horse, they have barbeques on Sunday afternoons in the summer. There were super-comfy couches and little cluster of tables, French bistro style-but there was no ‘list’ or reservations needed. Downstairs was a bit more of a ‘beir garten’ feel with more cigarette smoke, long sodden tables and benches and more beers on draft but still fun. We met and hung out with a bunch of Aussies, including one who had both eyes on T and was a doctor, we think. We went from there to Vin Rouge to the Elk and finally home! 8-10 pound mini cabs.
Hummus Brothers – I must pause and mention this little restaurant in SoHo. It’s a hummus bar but they have the best Greek salad ever (mostly cukes and tomatoes with some zesty dressing) but there are six different styles of hummus with white or really yummy brown bread (not exactly pitas or flat bread-in between?). Ed and I went in the pouring rain for dinner one night and we sat there so long we eventually received a complimentary dessert (some kind middle eastern flan-ish thing with a tiny drizzle of date syrup) and limitless hot water over mint leaves. Okay, so Ed maybe wasn’t quite as into the not water thing I soaked it up. They guys were really nice and it was definitely worth visitng. Plus they have ALOE VERA juice!!!!!! Oh it was soooo good-and the entire meal for two with salads and 2 mains with two juices was like 16 pounds on a Saturday night. Who can beat that??? I’m thinking there is a world of vegetarian I’m missing-must explore….

Now the Queen is in town. And by that I mean D’s emissary in the form of G’s mama. Catch all that? Miz Mary has come to town and brought my mail (and a pair of old sweats that I left) with her. Between her and Dede I was having quite the good week (despite obvious evidence mothers feel compelled to feed you actual food not from Pret or Tesco). She came for a week to see G’s flat and tour around London before Dr. Scott flew in to join her for a few days. It always makes me miss my parents to see other people’s parents but these four (with Cap’n Miles) are pretty good substitutes.

Joe’s: Great little lunch café Dede has taken me to before in South Kens right across the street from Joseph (hence the name-very clever). I love that area because there are just loads of cute shops and one can always wander up to Harrods.

Beach Blanket Babylon: Now I had heard about this place from G before and had wanted to venture over to Notting Hill and see if it was cool so when the invite was issued for dinner I hopped right on over. The inside of this place is like a treasure trove. It’s almost so random it’s too odd but somehow it works. It’s tucked on a spiffy little street off of Notting Hill Gate and while the exterior makes you think charming café the initial bar is more sleek Euro chic. A 9 pound glass of pinot later and I was the only person at the bar. Now, for all those restaurant designers out there I must say this: Having the bar right at the entrance is fine and dandy but when there are only five tables for 1.5 people and when the only side on which to stand makes you face backwards to the street, being the only person at the bar can feel a bit awkward. For AoY, make that 10,000% uncomfortable and antsy. Social anxiety strikes again! Luckily G & Co. (Skye also came-she’s a friend from Halloween/Ice Skating and super-nice) and we literally went into the bowels of the restaurant. I tried to sleuth and walk and from what I could see, there are little separate nooks and crannies for the VIP (or previously book large parties) next to Dada style fire places. Curio cabinets are stuffed with vintage jewelry, masks, and there are tons of harlequin colors and even a Byzantine-style mural with glass and filigree. Again, this sounds over the top but the restaurant is actually quite dark so it isn’t too much. We walked over a ‘plank’ with chain handles (seriously, it was two pieces of varnished wood between us and the next level and then down again. Villa Troncos? Anyone ever been there? The meal was beyond fantastic, if a bit slowly served by those not speaking much English, but it was a neat evening with lively conversation.

Jumeirah: Really chic hotel where Dede and I met for drinks. I bring up this evening only because it was the last night of the playoffs that decided whether or not the Colts would be in at the SuperBowl. Now, being so far from NFL action and not having Sky or a burning design to inhale cigarettes for four hours every Monday I’ve kind of missed the loop on pro sports this year. T and I were surprised when we saw the World Series being televised (okay, well that sucked so bad example). My point is that I had just BRIEFLY skimmed an article that morning about the history being made of 2 black coaches going to the Super Bowl. My thought: Who are the Bears and I really don’t like the Colts (Peyton Manning went to UT; they wear orange and some of my family went to Vanderbilt and I’m from SC; convoluted enough said). But I just figured it was old news and went to class. I’m not exactly sure why but the Miles’ had taped the game and knew absolutely nothing about it and had deliberately remained ignorant until they could watch it (Mr. Bill is quite the Colts fan-Peyton married a cute girl from his hometown-it’s just a Southern thing yall; deal). So we met for drinks until dinner, which ended up being takeaway at the local pub on Sloane and then I watched my first US football in FAR TOO LONG at their flat. I do feel a bit sorry for Mr. Miles because I’m sure all he wanted was some testosterone or a muzzle as Dede and I felt compelled to make the necessary comments from time to time (even if they weren’t about football). But the hotel was beautiful seemed like a great place to meet and greet sultans.

The George and Beyond! Lord was this a big night out. It’s worthy of it’s own entry but my parents might start wondering when exactly I go to class or work if everything is divulged :)
The George Bar: There is a private club in London, very swishy, called Anabel’s and the same guy owns another private club called The George in Mayfair. As it was more of a business dinner than social I met up with assorted surrogate parents, G, another friend from St. Andrews Ali and some of his friends. All had girlfriends and the few girls that did pass through the George that evening (at the risk of sounding like as ass, what 22 or 23 year old just GOES to the George-I wait until someone else appropriately takes me-yup, sounding like an ass) were absolutely stick-thin tres chic. SOME people had failed to mention this was a party dress event but thank God black pants never go out of style I guess, even if they are horribly boring…Anyway, I discover that Dr. Scott, when not saving lives and being brilliant, is even more brilliant and reads the same books D&D and Spence and I all pass back and forth amongst each other. If I didn’t already love the guy, bibliophilia does it! But lord, I can barely find time to read when I work and he’s a surgeon! Can’t imagine. So our slightly loud group partied on until they made the GRAVE mistake of shutting down the bar at the ridiculously early hour of eleven or so. The parents went home, me and one other girl journeyed on to the beginning of a long fun evening…

Kitt’s: Sloane Square – Thankfully one of our party was on the list so we didn’t have to queue for this very small underground club in Sloane Square. I’m sure it’s lovely but it did seem to be a bit packed with (and since the Brit word I REALLY want to use might offend tender ears) posers, albeit probably posers with money, it was smash in and fight to the bar. Keep in mind that everyone else was probably 5,6,7 drinks ahead of me (I had to finish a job app and didn’t arrive until 10ish) so I quickly tried to catch up, tried being the operative word. After some inventive wiggling and a few nudges I maneuvered up to the bar and waited. And Waited. And waited some more. I had owed G a drink but whilst waiting started chatting up a very attractive Scotsman from Edinburgh named Jason. While his rugged good looks might have appealed he was standing next to the biggest bunch of (I really hate that I’m keeping this pseudo PG-13) ‘loud obnoxious drunkards’ which ruined a bit of the appeal. I’m sure G coming up and giving me a friendly hug did not spur our tender romance although he seemed quite impressed with my ability to order three drinks at once (it’s a skill). Leaving Jason to the bar we soon left and went on to door Number 2.

Mamalanji: A favorite of the rich/upwardly mobile/chavvy or just interested, I went to this club back in the fall (with the two involved men who spent all night convincing us that their girlfriends wouldn’t mind) and really liked it. The bar is good, music good and the people actually danced. We didn’t have to wait long but things got a TAD spoiled when a few of the guys (we were split into 2 groups) got a little pissed over actually paying cover (I confess 3 drinks and I suddenly don’t mind covers but scream like hell if I’m sober) and then one made a bit of an unfortunate remark to the clearly homosexual money taker. This netted everyone the boot although I did get my money back. I think that’s the first time I’ve ever been bounced by association. Moving right along…

151: Down the street is a dive bar popular with those native and posh to London. When I walked in I got hit with a very, very strange sense of déjà vu. It’s cavernous and filled with booths and dark corners and a bar and then it hit me…2005 London trip with Melissa, Pete and Dmitry and Pete (or Ben’s) friend. We got absolutely smashed on absinthe and came here before stumbling back to the friend’s place. Again, it’s not like these are on sequential evenings people!!!!!!!! Well, the clientele gets a bitch sketchy at 151 and it certainly helped to have five or so strapping lads ready to defend your honor from bar lizards. We stayed till closing before making a few quick stops that needn’t be mentioned and ending up back at D’s (friend of Ali’s) place. Since he is thankfully neither a serial killer nor homeless, Kate (the other lone girl) and I kicked D’s houseguest from the sofa bed and called it a night after making the boys an omelet. It was around 5 AM I believe. I found that the beauty of starting very late that night was that I just didn’t drink that much and remembered everything.

Oh, it turns out that D lives right behind Holy Trinity Brompton in South Kensington so it was thankfully a blessedly short tube ride home! Fun times were had but I can honestly say that the lifestyle of a jet setter would kill me.

General insanity ensues and the exploration of British life continues. Cheers!

So here’s the update on the Knee situation:

1. Went to NHS (Ya’ll know).
2. Got X-rayed at Hospital that very day (again, nothing new).
3. Waited 14 days before hearing my results, during which time I graciously did not call between days 8 and 12 after hearing that Ms. London’s chest X-rays were perfectly normal. The result was that the report didn’t say much and my bones appear to not have any deformities. I immediately booked his next appointment as thanks, I actually was aware that my shin bone was not sticking out of my knee. Wait Time: One week.
4. Thursday Rolls Around: I plead a blonde moment and did not in fact write down the appointment time and just sort of showed up when I thought the woman had said. I was a couple of hours early but as I only live twelve minutes walking distance, I used it as an excuse to take a morning stroll, get the paper and stretch my legs. Returned at actual appointment time to find out that they were suddenly backed up. I was actually rebuked by the same nurse who had shunned me earlier for not answering my phone when they called to tell me to return immediately (Actually, had it turned off for class). After venting her frustrations as a second-class citizen (ouch, that was harsh but she was a real bitch and totally defers to the good doctor even when he is an ass) I said I had no problem waiting and settled down with my schoolwork. That’s the beauty of being a student. Endless amounts of enforced inactivity with no one to talk to provide useful study periods.
5. An hour after that and right at the clinic’s “lunch hour” (which is 4 hours long) I finally saw Dr. Ali. Now this man saw me once, spoke with me three times on the phone and-again this might sound a bit harsh-I’m one of two women not wearing headscarves and holding babies and am damn sure I’m about the only American. My point is that in some way I should stand out in his memory. Oh no, I was his ‘new patient’ who had been running late. Okayyyy, I’ll let that slide. When he asks me the problem I explain it’s a follow-up on my knee. He immediately begins write an Rx for an X-ray. I explain the “been there, done that’ phenomenon and he pulls up my chart for my left knee (it’s the right, but I guess he could be confused). After confirming the report, again, he just sort of sits there. I sit there. We stare. I bounce the ball back into his court by explains all of the symptoms, what MIGHT be causing it, where it hurts, show him. He nods, then takes a mobile phone call about the Mercedes he test drove yesterday and how interested he might be in buying the car for his wife. OKAY, WTF? I can feel a Southern-fried temper starting to build as his nurse breezes in, stands listening and throws some paperwork. After five more minutes, he looks back and says, ‘Ok, so your left knee? It still hurts? What happened?”
6. It is here that I discover a magic that females can employ at will, although this was a spontaneous reaction. Tears. Maybe it was the constant throbbing, lack of sleep, reaction to inflammatory meds (longer story), and the fact that I was slowly resembling a pudgy creature from The Night of the Living Dead but here was a DOCTOR who is wearing a $700 suit and tie and will barely poke and prod a non-female specific, non-sexual body part. Tears are magical. Suddenly he thought I should see a specialist who might be able to order an MRI (I actually told him that I thought it might be an interior MCL tear requiring an MRI to diagnose or arthroscopy to treat; he agreed). He then asked me if it was still hurting. Temper reared its ugly head. Maybe when I get pissed it comes out in liquid form with the ability to burn through sheet metal. Supremely frustrated but unwilling to use such an obvious ploy of crying I settled for the “Bravely Battle Back the Waterworks with a Quivery Smile and Sniffle.” Again, involuntary but it works every time. He wrote up orders for the nurse to send a letter to the hospital so it could go to the doctor and I could get an appointment. He then asked if he should mark it “Urgent” or if I was feeling better. I kid you not. I couldn’t make this up. I’m actually getting pretty steamed writing about it two weeks later! I managed a strangled ‘Yes’ and refused controlled substances for pain and hobbled along my merry way.
7. While waiting, and because “Dr.” Ali (I’m starting to doubt his qualifications a bit) was so concerned that I hadn’t done blood work for the NHS (I just had it done in July for the tonsillectomy and I’m pretty damn healthy) I toddled off to the hospital for their blood clinic. At least it’s a nice place and within walking distance. Nothing like the county hospitals of ER that I feared; more like Seattle Grace. For blood stuff you have to fast 12 hours beforehand. I was, of course, running behind schedule and didn’t even get there until 12 (water bottle exploded in my school bag prompting a race back to the flat for a hairdryer). The sign read 55-65 minute wait. I had pretty much figured and brought my school books again (I was getting a lot done this week) but after 45 minutes I found out that the wait time was more like 3 hours. Not great but what else did I have to do? I did start getting a bit hungry every time the snack trolley was rolled through the clinic doors. *This should make my odd Brit List but it’s just a Europe thing. Little men push around hand carts filled with various goodies and drinks including coffee and tea (usually liquor but none here) for purchase. By Hour 3 I was considering tackling Mr. Trolley and making a break for freedom. But I got a lot done. As I COULD drink water I downed a few liters and was just starting to squirm a bit when my number, 17, was called (told you they love their queues). It helped that seriously pissed people had stormed out and lost their place in line ahead of me. Blood letting is never fun but usually just closing one’s eyes and thinking of England helps. My phlebotomist was nice, if a bit too interested-I’ve never been hit on while being deprived of blood; it’s weird and makes you wonder why someone hits on patients while causing them pain…(ewwwww). Seven tubes later (what in the hell did Dr. Ali order? I’m gimpy, not dying!) I booked it for the nearest PowerBar.
8. I received a letter inviting me to call for an appointment with a specialist. Having just read an article on the Labour party’s freeze on non-emergency surgical procedures for three years, I panicked and have started making phone calls back to the US on the difficulty of being treated overseas or in DC (I have to go for a wedding). But my letter arrived and gave me a nifty password I must always use in booking appointments. You ready? It’s “Fang Panel”. I laugh every time I see it. How random!
9. Called the Hospital for an appointment. The next available one is July 6, 2007. Glad to know “Urgent” has such meaning to socialized medicine. I’ve been promised an earlier time due to Urgent status and am to date waiting on a call back. JULY??? Definitely heading to the US in this case.

So that’s the saga of living in a country with socialized medicine. I’ve always sort of thought it was in theory a nice idea and hey, I’ve seen a doc twice, had an X-ray and gotten four prescriptions (okay, one I was oddly reactive towards but we didn’t know that!) without paying a dime except for the scripts. I’ve come to believe that if you have LOADS of spare time, a wealth of patience, and a whopping dose of ability to self-diagnose and self-heal then you’re fine. I guess it’s good I won’t be using their pregnancy services ever over here. “Oh Mrs. So and So! We can get your in for that first pre-natal visit in 7 months or so! Until then just rest and enjoy!” I don’t think people with an expiration date should use public healthcare. Go private.

For now I’m totally milking this as an excuse to power walk instead of run and go to the gym three times a week instead of four or five. Blah blah blah, I still walk every freaking where in the city and hike up and down the stair wells, dodging away through throngs of confused people….

And once again…we’re back!

This is not truly seven posts written in one day; I’ve just been a complete git and not posted for a few weeks and had some hard copy stuff I’m just transcribing. Pics will follow eventually.

Now before relating the last and odd series of events to occur, I must pause to continue adding to my list of ‘odd things about England’.

25(?) People are oddly confused about which side of the stairs and/or escalator to walk up/down/stand on. As I ventured off to Harrods to see a man about some shoes (to be expounded upon later in this story), I noticed that mass confusion ensues unless there are clearly delineated signs saying “Stand on Right, Walk on Left”. Now is this a function of so many tourists using mass transit, walking down city streets, going up and down the spiraling staircase of death at LSE, meandering along to the loo at bars and pubs? Could it be that no one who was actually RAISED on the ‘drive on the left side of the road’ system inhabits our fair city? Maybe, like the 98 pound Chinese girl who sits in the middle of a one butt staircase in the St. Philip’s Building every Thursday as we race to the 4th Floor for class, they have movement inertia. Regardless, I’ve developed a very good duck and weave strategy. I’ve found it SOMETIMES helps to plant your hand very firmly on the rail, perhaps lean a bit, and start trudging. Running while holding onto the rail and saying, “Oh my God, stop the Train!” might has good results although I’ve yet to seriously pursue this. Even the New York Stare (that glaring evil-eye that threatens a future stabbing in the next alley) isn’t enough at times. While I’d say 60% of confusion IS in fact a tourist problem or people like me who know better in theory but continue to use the right side of the stairs to ascend, just like driving, I remain firmly convinced that the Brits aren’t really happen living life in the left lane and that confusion/unhappiness asserts itself in their sort of deer-in-headlights snakey head-bobbing they do whilst they try to figure out whether to go left or right. For the 98 lb. Chinese girls of the world who just have no decency of giving way, I’m not hitting you in the head every week with my Longchamp because I enjoy it (okay, I do just a little)-move your ass to the chair sitting five feet away-it seriously is, she sits on the landing in the center. My larger friends have issues. I just sling a coat in her face. Go to the mattresses.
26 The Brits love numbering systems. All their world is a queue and god has given you all a number in it. There’s a numerical system at the Post Office, the bank, the blood clinic (later kids, will explain later), the doc’s office, the Career Services Center and I’m sure at the DMV. I support tickets and number systems. It keeps the world on a string, but I am still awaiting to be given a ticket to await the appropriate time to board my morning Tube.
27. Psychometric Tests – Again, more to this less but the Brits don’t ever take your resume or interview at face value. Instead you must apply, wait to be given the opportunity to take 40 minutes worth of verbal and math tests before ever seeing an interview. Or it’s two phone interviews followed up by 1 or 2 DAYS at a testing facility at an undisclosed location. That’s quite scary. At least interview me and hire me based on personality and looks-if I suck at my job, you only have your narcissist and elitist tendencies to blame!
28. Limescale-Yall still can’t solve. Me and my battered skin thank you. I live to see chalky white particles floating up in my water or hot water that remains milky or “fur” in the tea kettle, perma-scrum in the shower and the most aggressive mold growth known to man. Stop bickering over Scotland. You have bigger problems.
29. Last one (if I ever repeat an oddity, call me on it; I can find more). You must buy your ‘seats’ for the movies. Not just tickets, but you must actually book where in the theater you wish to sit and someone will either show you the way or you must find it yourself and God help you if you screw up. There are Premium seats that cost extra. I noticed this when G* and I went to see “Blood Diamond” the other night. Awesome, AWESOME movie-Leo, you are forgiven for Titanic, finally. Sorry, have a pleasant interlude where Leo expresses his gratitude for forgiveness…anyway, rather than locate our seats up in the rafters we sort of snuck in and to the side (I was 4 minutes late, as usual). We both noticed our knees being chewed upon by the seats in front but ignored it until the movie began. I think G had either run a marathon or was avoiding becoming a eunuch but I had no issues executing a straddle and jump to the “Premium” row behind us. A scuffle broke out during the previews because one group was in another group’s chairs. OH NO YOU DIDN’T! It’s a movie, folks. Relax, enjoy, eat the shitty popcorn (old gum, best described as old reheated gum collected from the chairs after the last movie).
30. Pay bills at bank. I actually love this. I paid my Council Tax (the tax to live in a flat and pay rent) by handing a slip of paper to a teller. No muss, no fuss, no stamp required.

Hmm this list went on longer than expected. Okay next entry has updates!

So I am attempting to join the 21st century and upload a media file with video and sound to this blog. Hmmm, since more than 3 pictures in a post han't been working so well this might take a bit but hang tight, tech genius at work here.

In other technical news, the AoY has bought a printer. A printer with the fancy Ethernet card thing for wireless printing. Gumtree.com is a marvelous Kiwi (erm, New Zealand) invention to counter craigslist.org (my first love of online apartment hunting). So I trekked all the way to ACTON TOWN (That's Zone three which is like driving to McLean, Rock Hill or Irmo depending on who is reading this. If you are from Texas I just don't know!) and met Tom, the rather cute Aussie who works in hotels. He assured me it worked, even threw in some nice cords and found a shopping bag to haul it all another 30 minutes on the tube. All this for 35 quid?!?

I must think of a name for my new love. This is the end to running downtown to LSE or being lowered to hit on the creepy Italian/French/Albanian/Armenian guy at the Princess Hotel across the street. I must, in an ongoing effort to prove that the UK is not quite up to US standards at time, that Kinko's is neither 7 days a week nor 24 hours a day. Nothing 24 hours is actually 24 hours but that's another issue...back to printer!

So, the Epson EPL-6200L is SUPPOSED to be reliable. Rave reviews on the Internet, easy to assemble, a bit boxy (as I ended up carrying it in my arms the whole way 'boxy' is an understatement). I waddled home, and not due to a liter a water sloshing about my insides, and put on my super-smart-IT-I-can-do-it-sans-man hat. Ladies, this is the hat that inevitably involves tears, a phone call to your ex or daddy and more money spent on repairs than the original estimate. Said hat is often donned by men refusing to read directions or hire a professional but women will sometimes fall under the illusion that they can do it all (and we can, just not rodent disposal). So without a man, a manual, or a muse in sight it was time to figure out how to set up a UK printer through a wireless BT hub to a US computer. Here is how:

1. Go to the manufacturer's website and download the specs and instructions for that printer.
2. Print a test page from your new printer and determine if it can go wireless.
3. Pour the first glass of wine.
4. Connect the pretty cables and sort of close one eye and hope that your laptop sort of automatically recognizes a new printer in the room.
5. Refer to your properly downloaded manual which they suggest you print out for clarity-hmmmm.
6. Try the old Plug and Play via Windows to see if Bill Gates has made connecting wirless devices idiot-proof.
7. Order Thai food as an excuse to have two bottles of wine sent to your door in less than 30 minutes-ha! That didn't require a man or a printer.
8. Muck around in the printer settings, maybe unplug and re-plug the cords. I find a little love tap to be helpful right about now. Just a little nudge to prompt good behaviour from Stewie (how's that for a printer?)
9. See if the delivery boy knows anything about printers and overtip him in case he's bluffing.
10. Just start googling 'how to set up wireless printer'
11. Determine that you need the printer's URL or IP address (I actually knew that but I couldn't find it). Now might be when you start thinking of all those trusty man friends and IT gurus that you should have dated back in college and how liberal arts degrees are worth nothing and how you are doomed to serve fries forever...
12. See that your downloaded manual requests that you refer to the original manual. Grrrrr...
13. Repeat Plug and Play, love tapping, glass refilling.
14. Find some tiny little unlabeled button near the Ethernet card installed at the back and see your printer spit out the much-desired URL, IP and other pertinent information. Basically, luck and happenstance have trumped logic, rational and skill (and this is why women shall rule the earth!)
15. Celebrate with a nice glass of wine after successfully installing your new printer-you have triumphed. The empty bottles were clearly consumed by some depserate person without a clue of how to operate electronics.


Now that Stewie is up and running, he decides, in typical evil-machine form, to only print a single page at a time. Just like a man, he can't multi-task, he jams himself up after a single accomplishment and then just gets all bent out of shape over multiple commands. This is an issue to be resolved at a later date...
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On the NHS front, four weeks after an initial consult and two weeks of waiting on X-ray results, my shine bone is officialy NOT sticking out of my skin and I won't die. Thanks, thanks for that. I am now going back again to the same doctor who can't remember why I went in the first place to try for an MRI. Free health care is slowly working its way up my shit-list. Oh, the doc did tell me upon one of my many calls for results that Ms. Hannah London (me, apparently)'s chest x-rays were perfectly clear and everything looked normal. Now, enourmous issues of malpractice and privacy violations aside, because I quickly tried to tell him I wasn't NOT in fact this mystery woman, I was chastised for being impatient. True that may be but I was told to call back in 3-4 days, then 7-10. So I shall call starting at Day 7 until they get it all together. :)

NHS is My Homeboy!

Sunday remained calm-just the usual sleep a bit late, read and study, talk to the parentals, etc. with a little twist. Good old G* proposed a movie so we took in the 8:00PM James Bond. Maybe it's his eyes, maybe it's his ability to correctly perform life-saving apparatus and then resume poker play but Daniel Craig is H-O-T. I never 100% got into Bond (particularly some of the last ones) but I think there might be a Bond marathon in the future...

Today was D-Day. Doctor's appointment (to see a real doctor!) followed by haircut (traumatic event for everyone). Now, one MIGHT think that if one is going to the doctor for knee pain and general misery, it MIGHT not be advisable to RUN to the clinic despite being a bit tardy. Sigh...I'll learn eventually, I suppose. I paid for a five minute jog with 20 hours of agony and throbbing. Way to be, way to be. Thirty seconds with the dorctor netted instruction and a perscription to go to the local hospital for an X-ray. Hmm, good results and still no cost at this moment. But my last trip to the emergency room (Sudafed plus glass of wine=speedball) for an emergency took 6.5 hours so God knows how long this could take...

Off to the salon to see Jaye. Two hours, an undisclosed sum and brown dye later it's off to the hospital for the wait. Wait, schwait-I was in and out in under 15 minutes. No insurance, no appointment, just stroll in, head to the X-ray lab, hand over Rx and Bob's your uncle (actually Bob is one of my uncles but I digress). While no one came screaming out of the exam room after viewing the films they did cluster five people around them at one point. Not good, not good. I did ask them to ask if I had some large tumor I should be worried about and thank God it wasn't that (unless they're lying...) So now it's the waiting game until Friday. I think I've figured out NHS. If you have LOADS of time and no committments and are EXTREMELY flexible(ahemmm....) then it's fine and dandy. Otherwise, it could be a nightmare.

Nothing else too new to report, Nite Ya'll!

Return to the Ministry of Sound


So...Number 10 happened at the doctor but I couldn't find a kneecapper willing to work for free. Thus a return on Monday to the clinic will be necessary to 'maybe' see a real doctor. I must return again to the British concept of 'Open 24 Hours' as this clinic claims to be. Now if you call to become a new NHS patient you must be there between 3-4PM with attendant paperwork. No problem. What they don't tell you is after walking 15 minutes to get there (or bum knee no less) you will find the clinic closed for lunch between the hours of noon and 4PM. Hmmmm, call the office-goes straight to voicemail. Ring the buzzer, no answer. Well, shit. Now why would a nurse insist upon an arrival between 3 and 4 if they don't intend to be there? Maybe this is the way Britain avoids having new healthcare patients. The hours on the door read: 'Medical Centre-Open 24 Hours. Surgery Hours (that's doc's hours to ya'll): Monday-Friday: 9-12, Closed for Lunch 12-4, 4-6PM except Wednesday when the office closes for the day at noon.' I must ask, CAN I PLEASE HAVE A JOB THAT TAKES A FOUR HOUR LUNCH BREAK EVERYDAY!!!! Not to mention I can bill myself as open 24/7 when in fact I'm not (see an earlier post about Tesco).
A limp and a hobble back through the gay district (didn't know Earls' Court has one) where piercings, coffee poets, erotic art for il uomo (man) and two gay clubs surround the corner I returned a bit before 4 and just leaned on the buzzer. The woman who let me in didn't respond to my slightly sarcaastic observation about making appointments between 3 and 4 (I was hungry, pissed, cold and in pain-manners were slipping a tad). Filling out paperwork in Britain is actually quite easy. To become a registered member in the NHS all I needed was name, address, number, a self-survey on famil problems and any old NHS doctors I visited. I was glad to have brought Sudoku and a book as post-Mickey Mouse paperwork it was time to wait for an hour and 15 minutes.
Now, social liberalism aside I had heard jokes and rumours about who exactly uses NHS and what kinds of doctors practice for national healthcare. A quick check on docotrs in my area confirmed that Indian, Muslim and other Asian nationalities tend to dominate the field. One friend said he always had Polish doctors but that must be for the East End. The two receptionists/nurses/paperwork ladies were headscarved and I appeared to be the only Caucasian waiting. It's like the DC Hospital at midnight I guess! The ebst moment came one Nurse A apparently didn't do something when she was supposed to and the two of them went at it. I'm all for relaxing of barriers whilst working but these two were bitching and sniping loudly for a good ten minutes, an event made even funnier by the partition which only allowed two bobbing headscarves weaving back and forth like pecking hens to be seen by the patients.
I finally was taken down scary dark stairs (it puts th lotion in the basket) which my knee found every so entertaining so a nurse could ask five questions and lead me up the stairs again. I found that she did in fact have a sense of humour when the weigh and measure portion of the program came around and I asked if I could remove my shoes, coat, sweater, earrings, underlayer, possibly cut some hair, my watch...I did find it odd that in no way would she touch me, even to take my blood pressure. I had to measure my own height and slip the cuff on. Fine and dandy but it's hard to get the height level thing straight without doing some major contortions! She did seem to find it unbelievable that I didn't smoke. In Britain I suppose this is cause for celebration but trust me, after 6 months of second-hand poisoning, you'll never want one, ever.
Her final diagnosis-Come around on Mponday morning to see the doctor and I have to get blood work done on Friday. Wait, back up a minute. Beg pardon and all that but NO. I had enough blood drawn for my tonsillectomy. Apparently, e normale to become a new patient. This free healthcare had better be worth it!

So our illegal squatter's going away party was last night in Central London. I met Ed out for sushi prior to this and we had a rousing evening of 'choose you fish from the revolving tray' and job seekers advice. I usually enjoy Yo Sushi but to the tune of 10 pounds I wasn't even remotely full. Ed ate three times that (but he is the definition of a human garbage can). From there it was to the Walkabout for some Snakebite and celebration before...a return to the Ministry of Sound.

For those keeping track T and I visited the Ministry of Sound back when we first showed up. I was a bit overserved at the time so details are hay but I remember paying 25 pounds to get in (50 bucks), standing in a group of Brazilian models (friends of T's) and felling oh so out of place, and waiting ages at a bus stop. Now the AoY doesn't normally do the trancey crazy clubs but promised free VIP entry who could refuse? We took a tube this time, walked around sketchy Elephant & Castle for a bit before figuring out where to go, went through the metal detectors and bag check (this is where not being sober helped last time-I probably would have left if I had realized this was involved) and entered bedlam. The problem with being sober is that you realize how crazy the place is. I stood around, and not being able economically or calorically afford another drink I ordered good old club soda and got tonic. Hmmm, another culture exchange netted me 2 pounds worth of old soda water from the pour (it's the US of A this stuff is free!!). A few songs, a lot of people watching as this is one of the trashier clubs in London and Ed, a few people and myself decided to call it a night. No one wanted to splurge on a cab so we waited Outside for 40 minutes for a night bus to take us to another night bus. And there we met quite possibly the dumbest girl from Australia and perhaps the World.
Girl: Oh, are you and American? (to ed)
Ed: No, I'm Irish
Girl: Are you sure you're not 1/2 American?
Ed: No, but I was born in South America.
Girl: Oh....., where?
Ed: In Brazil, San Paolo
Girl: Is that the capital?
Before Ed can answer...Girl: Oh no, Peru is the capital!
Her Friend: Idiot, Peru isn't the capital of Brazil
Girl: That's right, it's Chile right? No, it's defintely Peru I know this!
Ed and I exchange pained looks...Ed: No, Peru and Chile are countries, the capital of Brazil is Rio de Janiero
Girl: No it's so Peru right?
Ed: No.
Girl: But what's the captial of South America?
Ed and again exchange the look: Umm, South America is a continent.
Girl: I know, but so's Australian and we have a capital do you not know you're own capital?
Ed: Yes, S.A. has lots of countries that have their own capitals, there is no ONE capital for the entire continent.
Girl: It's Peru, or is Brazil the capital?
Sigh.......
This girl later went on to not know what college was (only had heard of university), never heard of DC, couldn't grasp that since I was was the EAST Coast that did not include, Los Angeles, California, San Francisco or Mexico. I swear this happened. Had never heard of Washington, DC (which IS the bloody capital), or Florida, thought New York was in California and the list continued...Ed and I couldn't decide if we were more appalled or amused by this chick.

Bus ride of nearly two hours was fine. I did meet an elderly French/Arab man named Aran on my trusty N97 bus who invited me to come to the Gloucester Road underground to a casino with his brother-in-law and some friends. As he was 75 if a day I wasn't TOO concerned but I'm not too stupid either. He gave me his number in Paris (he's a businessman there) and invited to show me and my friends around the city when we came to visit. Hmm, I think I'll stick to the Lonely Planet. Part of me is willing to do a bit of Google stalking to see if his cover as te owner of an interior design house is true, but I explained that my boyfriend was sick in bed at home and we had church the next morning (I would have whipped out a nun's habit had it proved useful) etc etc etc. Chelsea (our third roommate for the moment) came home at 5 and lights out as usual...

Oh we're off to see the Wizard/Doctor/9-Year Old posing as a professional....

The knee, attached to the infamous ankle, has gone on the DL list. Three weeks preceded by four years of persistent, nagging pain have driven me into the waters of NHS. I've tried the following: Every OTC pain pill, Percocet, heat, ice, stretching, mumbled incantations, water therapy, massage, light exercise, no exercise, chanting to my chakras, yoga, religion, liquor (internally and topically), sun, compression, wall sits, and finally...praying for the odd umbrella to knock the darn thing out from under me.

I've come to associate knee pain in three ways:

1. The constant nagging ache that makes one feel aged and keeps you awake or restless at night and shimmies a bit from the left to the right.

2. The sharp acute pain caused by: high heels, mis-stepping, sudden knee bends, doing hydraulic-like maneuvers on the dance floor (three vodka sodas and suddenly you can DANCE), and jogging/running. This is more of a sickening nauseous pain that may be accompanied with a series of pops and hitches within the joint. It's possible to have said bastard joint fold up underneath you at the worst possible moment (like climbing a Mayan ruin in a jungle). Such acuteness will confine itself to the patella or pick a side. Popping and clicking comes from within.

3. The hot tearing pain accompanied with exercising-you recognize that you are probably doing some kind of damage but you needed to crouch down and get the mail, you just didn't realize that you might not want to get back up. An Advil dousing will generally numb this to a faint cry to 'STOP' and is easily ignored in the pursuit of showing all that being in your mid-twenties does NOT mean it's time to slow down! Pain will generally radiate down the side or back.

Now, the NHS has been good to me so far. I have a few great fears for the morrow.
1. I will be turned away despite my supporting documentation and assurances by the clinic nurse that the ONE HOSPITAL in my district will take on new patients (if you wish to explore the NHS system, go to their website-it's red).

2. The doctor I see will refer me to a specialist who will see me an do and MRI in eight months.

3. The doctor will proclaim that ice and the Euro equivalent to Advil is all they can offer and I'm screwed.

4. He suggests a diet-I might literally go for his throat (wait for upcoming posts with that one)-or he suggests more exercise to work through the problem.

5. He doesn't speak English.

6. He/She (sorry, don't want to be sexist) agrees something is wrong but thinks that America will be the best place for diagnosis (an I'll pay for a ticket how....).

7. They want to operate right away and lead me to the bearest butcher shop (okay that's a bit gross but if you ever saw Saw or Hostel you would understand).

8. He/She refers me to a PT who will have a slot open in 5 months.

9. I have to pay.

10. I don't see a doc at all but a student nurse.

If #10 happens I'm asking the first brute stranger to kneecap me so I can just go to Emergency or MediVac to Charlotte.

Needless to say, AoY has NOT been in the best of moods. The weather has been lovely (a bit brisk and we even had snow once!), people are bustling about and it's the perfect day for a run through Hyde Park but NOOOOOOOOOO, I have to power walk like a Floridian retiree replete with fanny pack (which my Brit friend informed me was NOT a good thing to say here-I forgot due to pain).

Odd happenings in London today:

1-The Tube seems to have a lot of fires and people caught under the tracks. In DC this made headlines but Londoners seem just impervious to the thought of a dea body by Upingham.

2-T and I saw a cross-dressed man with either the biggest drag queen bra ever or four canteloupes up under a bright blue Naughty Nurse Uniform waiting for the train at Westminister. A very GQ banker literally turned around to stair at the spectacle behind him.

3-My 'D' key is very sticky and difficult to type with. There are millions of words requiring the letter 'd' and there are no computer stores to be found in London, just Surrey.

4-I saw Little Red Riding Hood. Seriously, she had on black tights, red patent leather pumps ala Dorothy, a bright red dress and her cloak (trust, it was no coat) was navy with a crimson interior complete with red-lined hood. I almost applauded.

5-British people will in fact pay more attention to Hilary's running announcement and Bush's visit to DuPont and will demonstrate and pontificate on these issues much more than their own F*d up problems. Maybe it's all misdirection...

6-When you finally get it together and go to a damn doctor your problem area will suddenly 'heal' itself and you magically gain five pounds right before you step on the scale, damnit.

Fact of the Day: The Royal Bank of Scotland, which issues it's own Sterling notes, is the only UK bank to issue 1 pound notes. Okay Americans, we're a bit odd with our $1-which, I hate to tell you, is slated to be slowly phased out beginning soon.