I really do love London. Although something made me sad and angry regarding the weekend, just being in London – even in the rain – shopping on the high streets, eating bangers & mash, listening to chavs, I really feel at home here.
I stayed with my aunt in Wimbledon, and saw most of my brethren at the same time. On Friday night, my friends and I arranged to ‘go for an Indian’ on Brick Lane, and spent a bit of time bouncing between pubs in Shoreditch, some packed with over 50s and particularly unflattering lighting – like Dirty Dicks – and then others like The Big Chill, which was nicely packed and selling beers for £2 a pop. ('No Peas. We will not drink Strongbow with you. You might like the taste, but frankly you need to be on benefits and have two kids with council house to drink that.’)
L: Remember when you wrote us a letter from France about your first sexual experience.
Peas: Oooh. You must’ve loved that.
L: How big was his penis again?
Peas: THIS big, [I say somewhat proudly, and hold up my forearm], although it was mightily scary first time round, if you get what I’m saying.
Next to us, cute man wearing a cardigan and openly listening in on the conversation: ‘How big was it again Miss? My forearm or your forearm?'
Gotta love the close proximity of tables in this place.
The thing with southwest London as everyone knows, it’s filled to the eyeballs with South Africans. My aunt lives near Wimbledon village and it’s gorgeous. But sitting on a tube at 1:00am with a million drunk louts screaming ‘Ja bru! Hectic man, I nearly chundered in the Walkabout!’ kind of makes me cringe with embarrassment.
Similarly, when we had dinner at the Dog & Fox the next night, the pub is pumping with people speaking Afrikaans.
Although, that said: South Africans at least have manners. They know how to work hard and always have a smile on their faces. Gotta give them that.
Seeing all my South African mates – I love them to pieces, but mental note if I ever get to live here one day: I will not stay in Southwest London. I’ll make the trek to see everyone, but I seriously wouldn’t move here to hang around with South Africans every single pub evening. No fucken way.
I went to lunch with the girls on Saturday to Waggamamas, after an amazing greasy breakfast with my lovely Brit friend Zuzula. She’s such a peach, driving me up and down Kensington High Street so that I can see the Albert Memorial.
Then the girls and I went to all the shops along the street for hours, acting like chavs in Top Shop. (K: 'Peas and N. We’re not in bloody Primark. Try on the clothes in the change rooms, not the aisles! I need to make a life for myself here.’)
I bought some stuff, even though I’ve probably bankrupted myself simply because of the rand-pound exchange rate. The best is the first three seasons of Little Britain for only ten pounds at HMV. And The first season of Flight Of The Conchords.
Meandered around Wimbledon yesterday with my aunt, and still marvel at how I like this place, especially the nutters.
Like the dude openly eating Bovril out of a jar, messing all over his tweed jacket, next to me. That was special.