Mrs Robinson

I shan't bother mentioning my absence - beyond this sentence - it is utterly pointless, though I do dislike elephants in the room.

Something cultural: The Graduate recently (ironically it was showing when I last posted) visited Perth. Starring Jerry Hall, this was a major coup for such a parochial town. In the quaint venue that is His Majesty's Theatre, a hint of Broadway and West End glamour alleviated the permeating sense of "Dullsville" life. The local papers gloated daily at our successful coup. The former other half of Jagger, the model was in town. And furthermore, dating a local businessman. Curiously enough, said businessman was in attendance the night I went. Not that it's any of my business of course...

The show: well it was itself rather quaint really. It certainly hearkened back to a time of much more simple gender roles, a world with much clearer divisions; black and white. The sets were wonderfully kitsch, and reminded me often of my grandparents old house. Strange colour combinations, modernist furniture and panelling certainly were very transporting.

Of course the moment that really had people excited was Hall's nude scene. "Clever" use of silhouette left very little to the imagination, but was undoubtedly wonderfully, artistically risqué. Now Hall is clearly no actress. She certainly doesn't pretend to be. But she surprised me with her comic timing, which more than made up for what was clearly "acting". And of course, she was not there to act, hers was the star quality that brought in the numbers. And it certainly did, from all across the Oceanic region.

From this, I can only speak of how well I thought the local cast performed, especially the young girl playing Elaine Robinson. The American who played Benjamin Braddock certainly made him irritating. Self-obsessed, self-important, selfish, vacuous, vapid... I felt venomous hatred for his character by the end. I was certainly praying Mr Robinson would prematurely end his days after the discovery of the protagonists' affair.

I am embarrassed to admit I have never seen the film in full. After seeing the play, I am certainly not dis-inclined to see it properly, but I will need to be in a very patient mood that evening. Certainly the Robinson alcoholism may be whence I draw my inspiration..

7/7

I've just realised 7/7 is in fact a whole. The completion of a picture. I wish I could feel more of a completeness about my life at present, but the more I accumulate, the more that seems to slip through my fingers. 

In terms of the things I like, I feel I have covered most bases. Transport to sustenance. Perhaps I can choose something that is important to me, something I do my best to show to whomever, whenever. Mrs Trefusis mentioned me and manners, something about which I can be very particular. Example: I simply loathe people who are rubbish at introductions. It really is too awful, I have no mechanism to deal with the awkwardness of being left to the wayside as a friend chatters on without making any attempt to introduce one to tuther. Are you specifically not introducing me? Or are you simply blind to the fact we are as Adam to one another? Either way, for some reason, it bothers me.

As, yet again, I have descended into writing about that which I don't like, I'd better move on quick smart. There is a vague connection, because what I wish to say I do like is kindness. I think kindness is so very important, it costs absolutely nothing and can greatly affect a person's day to day existence. I have been extraordinarily lucky in that I have known some of the kindest people imaginable. London, one of the world's great metropoles, is not somewhere I necessarily expected to discover it. The vastness of everything and, in particular, the number of people does not necessarily engender a sense of abounding kindness. But it is there that I was the beneficiary of some wonderfully good turns - extra streams of income when they were invaluable; hot, home-cooked meals when they were so very welcome; friendship in some low times and even, in moments of utter desperation, a roof over my head.

Kindness can take many various forms, be it a word, an act, a gesture, even an offer. It can be conscious or sub-conscious. In a world of increasing disenfranchisement, hedonism, selfishness, chicanery and one-upmanship, I think it is important to reflect on what it is to be human, what humanity entails. To me, one of our greatest achievements as a species was developing a conscience, rising above natural selection, empathy and kindness. Yet the downside of our developed thought has been to allow ourselves to divide - be it politically, racially, religiously, by gender, sexuality, background, hair colour, eye colour - and hate. And I'm in no way suggesting I'm above the negativity, I am often guilty of wishing ill on complete strangers. Bus drivers and club bouncers in particular.

However, what I hope by writing this is that it will serve as a reminder to myself, and to anybody else who should stumble across it for that matter,  to be better. It costs absolutely nothing to smile. To be kind, in its truest form, can make all the difference between somebody having a good and a bad day. I know on the very greyest and rainiest of days we feel far from any sense of joy, so therefore to share whatever remnants within there are seems ridiculous. But to do so is to multiply it tenfold. I promise. I spent yesterday at the funeral of a good friend's father. He had committed suicide out of depression, quite tragic. Certainly, the sense from the readings was that this was an incredibly kind, honest, decent and noble person, who had been overwhelmed by the horridness of the world around him. What was so touching, despite the grief, was the outpouring of kindness the local community showed this family, and I am convinced that this support was invaluable to them.

Our world can be a desperately dark place at times. It is within all of us to find that metaphorical sunshine, and to perhaps re-assess how we treat our fellow human beings. I don't mean to sound like the resurrection of Ralph Waldo Emerson, but I do believe we can all, even in the very smallest of ways, collectively make our human experience just that little bit happier.

"Give all to love; obey thy heart." 
Ralph Waldo Emerson

6/7

Nearly there..
It's a rather sorry indictment of my work ethic that I happen to be at "work" this very minute, and only now do I progress further with my meme. Oh well.

I could say I like it when I'm not at work, but that would be dull and stating the obvious. I think there are few people who would choose work over play, but I suppose it is only through working one can appreciate the free time. Why is it that I sound more and more like my mother with every passing day?

Right, so something I do quite like is a train. Trains are lovely! A childhood of reading (apologies to Mrs Trefusis) Enid Blyton, Agatha Christie and even J. K. Rowling left me with a distinctively glamorous view of trains. Be they the vehicle for a picnic followed by the inevitable adventure, the scene of a crime, or the means to reach a secret school of magic; there is a definitive style of transportation unparalleled. Now I love flying, and I do even enjoy driving, occasionally. Although motoring laws in this country are so boring, at 30mph I feel as though I might as well just walk. But there is something somehow romantic about trains. It feels so much more communal. Buses I abhor. In London, they're quite charming, but here the very opposite. They are loathsome, space-polluting, noise-polluting travesties which should be done away with. Although my judgement is very much skewed by recent terrible experiences. I do my best to be a good citizen of the world, and not to drive when it is possible to not do so. Well, my goodness is it obvious why people avoid buses. And they almost always smell terrible. But this is not supposed to be a post on what I dislike, is it?

Trains: The shared glances with fellow commuters when the peace is disturbed by some unsavoury type, well it's quite fun, isn't it?! It is a very delicate, dignified way to travel. None of that stop-starting, but graceful gliding into stations, an elegant annonceur informing passengers of their next stop, and an over-whelming sense of being above the internal-squabblings of the road-user world outside. I have found trains to be infinitely more reliable. A train schedule is somehow much more set in stone, and very rare will circumstances affect it. Buses, as the old adage goes, are nowhere to be seen for an hour then suddenly up turn three. Now, I am aware of a great many shortcomings in the locomotive department. The wrong leaves, the wrong snow, the mere existence of snow - all have dented its credibility. But I argue none of the fun of train travel has been extinguished. I'm blessed to have a lovely commute. I walk ten minutes through Karrakatta Cemetery, then am privy to fifteen minutes of very attractive scenery. Half of the journey follows the coast, before reaching the port of Fremantle. It's lovely to start the day overlooking the waves undulating towards the sandy beaches. And then Fremantle itself is lovely, one of the few places in this country to have successfully preserved its heritage. Some of it may be crumbly, but overwhelmingly, it is so gorgeously English. perhaps that's why I like it?

I keep reading of ideas to improve our rail system, of introducing light rail networks to deal with urban sprawl so as to keep apace with population growth. Well I do hope there is some substance behind all the good intentions. A world of more rail is to me, very appealing.

5/7

This one I rather hoped I wouldn't have to resort to, but I feel in some need of writing for writing's sake. I quite enjoy that food thing. And lots of it. Although that is misleading; I will not put rubbish into my body. I eat a lot, but I'm very fussy. I'm better than I was, and a lot of that came from my impoverished circumstances in London. I would eat what I was given, I had to expand my repertoire. As a child, red meat had never agreed with me. Be that pure obstinacy on my behalf, or a genuine complaint I'm still unsure. Should somebody place a steak before me, my stomach instantly becomes terribly acrobatic, bless it. However, sausages and bacon do the complete opposite, and their respective smells leave me salivating.

A great many of my friends accuse me of being a food snob. And quite likely, I am. I will not touch such things as pot noodle, ketchup, mayonnaise (home made excepted), builder's tea or that nasty pre-sliced bread that always seems so popular. Or margarine. Or caged-hen eggs. Essentially all the things to which an impoverished, student-type ought to defer. The list does go on rather. I hate such things as instant mash. The very idea is, to me, quite abominable. Mashing potatoes is possibly one of the simplest tasks in cookery. Oh dear, the point of this was to talk about something I like. Perhaps I have uncovered the next entry? Right, yes, well.

However none of this apparent snobbery is simply to keep up appearances. Quince could well be having a resurgence, but this doesn't influence me. I love quince because it tastes stunning. And it goes so well with such a lot, not least with cheese. I love runny, heart-attack inducing cheeses on crisp-bread crackers. And prosciutto. All cured meats really. And roasted vegetables. Roast chicken, or goose, or pheasant. I'm afraid this is all going to lack any sort of cohesion. One food will always suggest another. And memory plays such a wonderful role. I used to embarrass my friends terribly when they ever dared come food shopping with me. Waitrose was rather my place of worship for a long time. I was certainly devout. Contrasting the solemnity with which I made Sunday services, the Waitrose ritual was one of excited to-ing and fro-ing in between the aisles. There was always something wonderfully interesting to look at, sourced from somewhere mind-bogglingly exotic. Or so it was for me at least. There is something about fresh, ripe, home-grown, local and tasty ingredients that truly makes me happy. Knowing the meat/dairy/eggs were sourced from happy animals seems to automatically improve their flavour. Is that merely a placebo? I like to think not, although I'm certain various studies have shown no person can ever really tell in blind tests. But then, arguably, is that even the point? The satisfaction of choosing something sustainable and positive over the cheap and negative option is absolutely reward enough. I may have been pounds out of pocket, but I was and remain unperturbed.

The monetary thing has become an issue. I will always, and I mean always, over-spend unnecessarily on food. Today I did start well, I packed my lunch and that was all fine. However I then stopped off at the Boatshed in Cottesloe, to meet a friend. This particular grocer has a reputation for having the most wonderful foods, infamously eschewed by a large number of the locals. For example, they have just started selling Manjimup truffles, something they managed to cultivate after years of trying in the South-West countryside. I love it, and not simply because of the bountiful tasting plates. It was via one of these that I came to taste the Boatshed's chocolate mousse. I had to sit down. On the floor. Such was it's genius. And naturally I've introduced my current wingman to this airy, fluffy, frankly orgasmic delight. And that's what we bought today. For the second time in less than a week.

This is bad not only financially - forget not the turbulent economic times in which we still live, where austerity should be our hallmark philosophy - but it is not at all friendly to my waistline. In London I ate quality not quantity and I walked everywhere. It was certainly cheaper than paying for transport. I also cycled distances too great for walking. I was a bit feeble should the weather have been poor, but in general I would carry on unless the very heaviest of downpours should render me sightless. On the other side of the world, this does not occur. I eat quality and a huge quantity of it. Why? I'm not even hungry. However I cannot sit idly by and allow a sibling to have a larger portion of whatever than myself. I also drive almost everywhere. It's simply the done thing. You can neither survive nor rely on public transport alone, and the distances are far too great to allow for walking. I'm trying to do so more often, simply because I enjoy a good walk. Ah! idea number two from post number five.

Sadly this lacks any succinct, logical thought. I apologise. But perhaps this allows for my genuine like of food to shine through. I do hope so, at least.

3/7 & 4/7

This one will not surprise many. It is perhaps one of the primary incentives for my push to the green and pleasant land: my preference for colder climes. As a child I yearned for that "rainy day" which almost never came. This is, in my mind, the most likely reason for my inability to save anything. Least of all  - nay, especially - money.

I adore a frosty morning, one so cold as to make the thought of leaving the bed quite abhorrent. To sit by the fire, pot of tea (or glass of sherry) and good book in hand. Or perhaps even a very good film to watch. My pleasures are generally the indoor pursuits. But equally too, I love Winter walks. Rugging up and stomping about in Wellington boots - such fun. The sunny Summers sadly do not suit me. I burn very easily, my hay fever is quite debilitating and I do not suit swim-wear. Or shorts. Not that I think they suit many people any way. But mostly, I dislike the heat. I cannot stay cool. In the Winter it's fine, one dresses appropriately - and rather more smartly - and there you are, quickly warmed up.

Not so in Summer, particularly when one lives without the luxury of air conditioning. At it's worst, I cannot sleep. This was rather brought home to me the previous week, on a Balinese sejour. A family holiday, all rather lovely in theory. Escaping the Wintry "depths" for heat and humidity, endless pools, food, cocktails and shopping, it sounded rather wonderful on paper. However I had forgotten how little much of the previous list suits me. I didn't even want to drink the cocktails, such was my misery. Oh dear that does sound oh so pathetic. A free holiday and such was my attitude. I hope my behaviour wasn't too ungrateful, especially as I insisted on cutting my time there short by a week. I simply couldn't have faced two weeks of the place, when all I wanted was my own warm bed, my protector from the winds and the rain. (Yes there was actual precipitation).

Some like it hot...

Linked, but quite worthy of being in its own category, is snow. I just adore snow. Cannot get enough of it. I may have mentioned I grew up in a warm climate, somewhere along the line. Shocking, I know. So I imagine my lack of experience with cold and precipitation has had some influence here. In fact I didn't see snow until I was fourteen. It was on a rather gormless school trip to the nation's capital - a city built by bureaucrats for bureaucrats, it is a civil servant's wet dream (do excuse the vulgarity). To encourage the students to engage with the historical and political bent of the tour, we were also treated to a spot of skiing, which is of course where the introduction to snow came in.

I could perhaps describe our meeting as something along the lines of falling in love. It was certainly an immediate infatuation, one which lingers to this day. There is something about snow's ability to transform a landscape entirely, to silence, to cleanse, to purify. It was also the source of a great deal of fun. A hopeless skier, I am nonetheless enthusiastic and devour the slopes rather like the cheese boards and mulled wine I enjoy afterwards. Perhaps not the mulled wine when I was fourteen, I think it was most likely a very strong hot chocolate.

The mere sight of snow will reduce me to a level of giddiness, silliness and frivolity not known since nursery. It is like seeing a long lost friend, and much like all good friends, one can pick things up exactly where they were left off. I was blessed to experience some of the snowiest English Winters known for years, for which I'm too grateful. Of course, I pretended to tire of the disruption it would always cause. But secretly I was always very amused and rather pleased. The Christmas I spent in Sweden was something else, in terms of the volume of snow, the level of cold and a remarkable ability for a long-suffering population to soldier on. A myth Mr Fry once debunked, was the nonsense that the Swedes suicide abnormally more than anybody else. If you cross the Baltic to Lithuania, well then yes, it is unusually high, but I rather hope my good friend the snow is not a contributing factor.

So there you are; the cold and the snow are two things I like. Good.

2/7

Should I be concerned that I am finding it quite difficult to find things I like and wish to write about? Obviously I like more than seven things, were it otherwise then I would certainly be concerned. It's just that very little seems to present itself in anything more than a half-hearted sense. But I've just had a thought: what has been tagged numerously on KorE?, Champagne!

Now I enjoy the odd drink every now and then. Yestereve I enjoyed a lovely glass of port with a friend. The day before an ordinary Scotch whisky with the merest hint of water. Followed not much later by some cider and ultimately some champers. In my defense, I was out at the time and in any other situation I would not mix, least of all so haphazardly. I am also partial to sherry, both dry and sweet. But the one thing I will absolutely never turn down, perhaps to my detriment, is a nice glass of bubbles. Prosecco, sekt, cava, sparkling wine and of course the Holy Grail, I'm not usually too bothered (assuming it tastes all right).

I adore that first sip... The bubbles effervescently tickling the tongue, allowing the delicate notes of the wine to appreciate, the golden aroma so teasing; demanding more. And more. I mean I'm no wine buff. The local tabloid is currently poking a great deal of fun at the pretenses of professional wine tasters. Not that I am much bothered by their outdated and pathetically partial reporting. Think the Daily Mail lite. With more adverts. In fact I am bothered by it, but not bothered about it - it being 'that which they report'. But I digress. So I really enjoy a good bubbly, and not simply for the drink itself, but its connotations. The sense of grandeur and elevation it conjures, the decadence. Holding a champagne coupe and I am transported to Prohibition America, the 1960's and Mad Men or even the 17th century English aristocrats who first used the glass. Even the unlikely legend that the original was modeled on the breast of Marie-Antoinette thrills me. And with Wimbledon providing me with lasting evening entertainment, I wish so very much I were there too, enjoying a champagne in the sunshine on Henman Hill. Just glorious.

Another enjoyable aspect is of course, the sociability of the drink. In a strange way champagne is one of the indirect reasons for this blog's existence. At last year's Proms in the Park, my mother and I sat down to a very makeshift bin liner/scarf picnic rug with a few nibbles and a bottle of the Widow. Our neighbour's curiosity was aroused by this juxtaposition. That and our age difference. Striking up conversation, it was simply one of those moments one can only attribute to fate and I am eternally grateful. The rest, as they say, is history. More recently at a friend's 21st, a vast amount of the stuff was quaffed, and possibly the majority by myself. It certainly felt like it the next day, but all the merry chatter was such fun. And there you are: one might have a whisky, a glass of wine, even a beer; alone. However champagne is a drink that I could never envisage truly enjoying alone. Once my income level increases, I shall of course substitute water with champagne, naturally. But until such time, non. To fete, to celebrate, to share in joy and to commiserate, there is nothing quite like champagne. And that is precisely why I like the stuff.

1/7

Quite why Mr London Street enjoys my writing I as yet do not understand. My naive, spoilt and archaic tone rather chills me as I re-read posts, but nonetheless it is more than flattering to receive a compliment from such an admirable writer. I certainly owe it to him to attempt "Seven Things I Like", the meme in which he has tagged me. Perhaps it will restore me to a more regular writing pattern. This assumes I can think of seven things that I both like and can write at length on....

So I shall start with a place I like a little too much. London. Londres. The capital of the United Kingdom:

Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1803 

"Earth hath not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! The very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!"

William Wordsworth

I couldn't more eloquently describe my affection for the place. Despite being written more than two hundred years before I came to be in the city, it is as true and stirring a picture of London as ever it was then. What I love about this poem is the extraordinary contrast to his poem London 1802. The two could have been written in completely different cities for all the similarities in sentiment they share.

However for myself, it is this fabulous contrast that speaks to me best. London is the tale of two cities. The darkness and the light, the rich and the poor, the beauty and the beast, the West and the East, the North and the South. London never failed to uplift when I was down, but it could equally bring me crashing back down to Earth if ever I lost sight of where my feet ought to be. It is a city that brought a great richness to my life, and will do so to anybody who is prepared to embrace it.

Although I rather feel my time there ended prematurely, I can at least recognise that I was fortunate enough to be there at all. Many never have such a wonderful opportunity as I had, to enjoy the complete and unattached freedom of youth in London. What I must also do my best to understand is that, while for now we are apart, this could in a few years be remedied with some rather had work. Sadly I have always shied away therefrom, and thus my confidence isn't too high. But hopefully this will give me the necessary motivation... Goodness knows it can't hurt.

Waiting for (Sir) Ian

Purely by chance I was in the charming company of Sir Ian MacKellan on his birthday. On a tour of the Antipodes with Waiting for Godot, Sir Ian had made the long voyage West from Melbourne. I think he rather regretted bothering, on viewing the measly offering of a Tuesday night in the city. Where a Melbourne, a London, a Paris all remain abuzz in the evenings, Perthshire does not. I came to be there through a journalist friend who had interviewed Sir Ian in the morning. Naturally wanting to celebrate his birthday in some fashion, Sir Ian asked my friend where they ought to go, and my friend offered to provide a semblance of an atmosphere somewhere. At least he had a very useful name to drop.

Besides some very interesting conversation - featuring anecdotes of HM the Queen and Nelson Mandela and even of the fireworks man at the Sydney New Years Eve celebrations - Sir Ian's manager "managed" to arrange us tickets at a much more affordable 1/3 of the actual (and V expensive) price. Thank goodness he did so, because it was just astounding. My memory of the play from English Literature was not terribly favourable. However it is a perfect example of plays being written for performance and not for mere study. It was quite fascinating, and particularly for somebody often lost in introspection it was wonderfully satisfying. Do we exist when nobody else will acknowledge it? And then do other people and our interactions therewith prove that we do indeed exist? Quite marvellous.

I found it quite interesting that the actors used English accents (Sir Ian opted for Yorkshire), most English language productions have been done with Irish accents. There is a scene in which the characters make fun of the word "calm" and it's English pronunciation. However in general it was done quite brilliantly, the quick pace of dialogue punctured by some very clever physical comedy. Naturally MacKellan was the highlight, and he did rather outshine his colleagues, though this should by no means diminish the performances given by the other actors.

As a seventeen year old, it is much harder to appreciate some of the messages of this play. It is a tall order for a teacher to convey its merits convincingly, but now, five years on, I feel that I have a (somewhat) better grasp of the thing. I still don't know that I necessarily like it, but it truly gave me food for thought. Ideas such as our being born astride a grave demonstrate both the joy and curse of humankind. Our knowledge of mortality affords us much dignity, but at the expense of so much. My walk to the train station is a very short ten minutes if I cut through a cemetery (I'm trying to cut down on both fuel expenses and my carbon footprint and also to retain the communal sense I had as a London commuter) and as I wander past so many derelict and forgotten monuments I can't help but think about my own posterity, or lack thereof. Were something to happen to me in the immediate future, KorE? Twitter, Facebook would all still carry on in a dust-gathering form. Do I prefer an ethereal version of myself never to decay, or a humble gravestone or some such physical memorial? Frankly... neither much appeals!

At any rate, I endeavour now to be sure to withhold judgement of any work until I experience it within its proper context. There is a richness to so much that can be rendered invisible and unpalatable by an unfortunate chance of medium. And my over-active prejudices.

Five Years...

The Rose Beyond the Thames has playfully tagged me in a game. How could I resist?



What a Difference Five Years Can Make.



Essentially:



Where were you five years ago? 
In my final year of school. Too busy socialising and trying to be popular to study.

Where would you like to be five years from now? 
In London. Doing anything frankly, so long as it's in London.

What is on your to-do list today? 
Well to write this, to squeeze various people into timeslots for afternoon tea, organizing my music play-lists and to tidy.

What five snacks do you enjoy? 
Biscuits, houmous and crudités, chocolate, crisps and toast.

What would you do if you were a Billionaire? 
Ever so much. Return to London, firstly. I'd do my best to leave a positive legacy for the world. Philanthropy and investing in green technology spring to mind. I'd also make use of the freedom to study and work for my own pleasure, but this question has simply made me sad and wistful. Oh and I'd do a lot of shopping, but in one go at the beginning. I'd create a wardrobe which never required any addition beyond socks.


And so, to pass the parcel (no obligation, naturally!)...


Blonde Moments

Mrs Trefusis

Smack Crumple Bang

The Divorcee Dares To Dream

Fashion's Most Wanted

Hopefully theirs are much more inspiring than mine.

Cultural Awareness Programme

It seems all I do now is apologize for delayed posts. The problem is there is often so little to say, and so little that feels worthy of being written and posted. Upon returning, it has been difficult to avoid the onset of a depressed malaise. I could have fallen into that quagmire, but I have and am trying desperately to avoid it.

The method I have used has been to keep busy. Very busy. Exceedingly so. Difficultly, the first weekend was spent without any form of telecommunications (The Big Storm 2010) and therefore I spent the long days gardening. Almost beside myself with boredom I cleared guttering, swept, pruned and was just generally helpful. I became, in essence, a recluse for some time. Shunning everybody bar my family and a few close friends, I created a heightened sense of isolation, already heightened by the fact I am in the most isolated city in the world. I felt very much an outsider, a foreigner, and stranger. Who were these people, and who was I?

Of course life cannot be lived in that manner. I embarked on a cultural awareness programme (CAP), the sort which would hopefully life my spirits, and remind me of the array of such things available. And also, because I simply do not know what is there any more. A lot changes in three years. Much never does, however the superficial certainly will. And curiously, there has been a makeover of sorts. Some are utter travesties. The village of Claremont has been destroyed by a soulless Westfield-style development. Hideous. But other pockets are thriving. The liquor licensing laws were relaxed in 2007, and because of this, a plenty of small, quirky and quaint bars have sprung up in small alleys and off anonymous-looking car parks. One, named Ezra Pound, has the flair of it's namesake, and plenty of charm. It serves cocktails in jam jars, something that delights me for reasons unknown. Another, named The Bird, could have emerged straight out of Dalston.

The food options are as good as ever they were, but alarmingly expensive. Ditto coffee. This part of the world has always made exceedingly good coffee because of it's very strong Italian heritage. And it is good: certainly no Starbucks here. But equally, one pays for it. I am often asked "However did you afford to live in London, isn't it terribly expensive?". I do so love the opportunity to correct ignorance in others.

Another resolution inspired by the CAP was a determination to meet new people. The bubble in which I grew up well and truly burst when I escaped, and I mean not to let it inflate again, entrapping me. Because of this, I have made some truly wonderful new friends. Of course I shan't ever fully shake off the past, and nor do I wish to. It informed a large part of the person I am and there is still value in it, and in those people. I just wish to not become a slave to it, like so many others.

So, there it is. A small insight to the long weeks past; dark and saddening, yet silvery glimmers of hope for whatever is to come.