I went to see The Quiet American on Saturday, finally, and to get to see his 'neighbourhood' after years of telling me how great it is.
So I got on a train and ventured north, after buying a pair of your grandma's curtains to put on my legs.
Plain pants are done, people.
This fine pair is one of the more subtle varieties of trouser, trust me. There are all kinds of geometric and chevron shapes, paisleys in cray cray colours going on this summer.
Anyway. Where was I. So I pulled on the chintz pants and headed up to Chalk Farm station. One beyond Camden.
Doesn't sound like much does it?
Well. Chalk Farm is the station you get out at in Primrose Hill.
WHICH IS SO GOBSMACKINGLY AMAZING, I AM NOW OBSESSED WITH IT.
I just can't believe I haven't explored this area before. What. A Knobhead. For if I'd known a place like Promrose Hill existed - the village and the hill itself - I wouldn't have ever bothered with hanging out anywhere else in this town.
So obsessed and blown away by its sheer, ridiculous perfectness I was, I dragged the Brit there on Sunday to see it all over again.
Peas: "Right. How can we live here, we have to live here, we need to win the lottery, we need to make a PLAN, MAN."
Brit: We need to be billionaires. Or a rock star. Rock stars that have Hollywood star, live here Peas.
Peas: I KNOW. According to Wikipedia, we are talking Jamie Oliver, Gwen Stefani, Kate Moss, Gwyneth Paltrow. HOW can we make this work for us?! WE NEED TO MAKE THIS WORK, ANYTHING, ANYHOW.
We had this type of conversation ad infinitum while we toured the streets.
I can gush all day, but really, this is the London that I was meant to have been born. This is where the sun shines even when it doesn't.
THIS is why Primrose Hill is, hands down, without a shadow of a doubt, my favourite favourite part of London and I will aspire like a motherfucker - for the rest of my non-rock star life - to live there one day:
Not starving intellectual arty types, oh no. The types that have actually made it. And have published novels. Or have a rock band that's not in their garage.
We stopped at this one for tea and to people watch. While I kept banging on about how we are to solve this: how the Brit-On-Toasts (See that? Our new double-barrel surname. Very Primrose Hill) will find enough cash in their lifetimes to live in this paradise of a place.
(By the way, I wasn't high. It might sound like I was, but I wasn't. I am sober gushing.)
Tourists don't know about Primrose Hill. They go to Camden, 15 minutes to the left.
Chavs don't go to Primrose Hill. I did not see one chav the whole weekend.
So while there's a strong community spirit and lots of buzz going on, it's not overinflated by people that generally annoy me. It's just the locals; and as the streets are wide and the pavements - you're not bumped, or hassled or continously have to watch your feet wherever you go. This is a BIG thing.
The streets are also impeccably clean.
Huge trees that rise up and make normal-sized trees look like tumbleweeds.
Again. I wasn't tripping.
It's intellectual-exclusive, but not crazily snobby that you feel bad for not being born with a trust fund.
What, oh dear sweet, merciful Christ above, ARE we to do? Because by the looks of things, we can't afford to buy a paper bag in Primrose Hill.
The Brit-On-Toasts are wracking their brains and looking at rentals instead.
People watching. Look, the lady behind is ALSO wearing her Nan's curtains!
WE ARE SO ON TREND.