In which I talk about somebody else for a welcome change

One of my dear friends from home is on the cusp of releasing her first self-produced album. I met Andrea through a friend and almost straight away we had a "connection", which we later admitted is rare for both of us (sensitive, creative, unsociable creatures that we both are). I had recently moved into her suburb and was thrilled to have a local friend, whom I could drop in on without warning. One of my more annoying traits, the unannounced call-around.

Andrea is tiny, blone and curly-haired, with a cheshire-cat grin and a very distinctive voice (clearly enunciated but with a very Australian drawl). She likes the colour red and almost always has at least one item of red clothing on her person. She also has a small pug called poppy on whom she dotes, with a fervency I find hard to comprehend - given poppy's ill-temper and her "only a mother could love it" squashed face and squat little body - but accept. We have seen each other through various relationships; break-ups; and reclaimed singlehoods (celebrated with a few drinks down at the Geebung). Always the red wine, with Andrea.

She used to work part-time in order to devote her spare hours to music, and just lived quite frugally (apart from the red wine). I was forever in admiration of her gentle-natured tenacity, and always very curious about her music and songs, but never got to see her perform live and was too shy to ask her to play me anything (or I felt she would be too shy to play it for me). All these years, and I had never heard Andrea sing.

Last week, I heard some clips of Miss Barnett's songs for the first time via her website. Maybe it is my current emotional state, but there was no denying that it touched my heart to hear one of my friend's true talents being poured directly into my ears from the other side of the world.

Good music, especially live, can cut straight to your bones or heart or gut. It can stop you in your tracks, put you under a spell, and at the risk of coming over all Danny-Zuco, electrify you.

I even have a sort of weird Pavlovian response where, whenever I hear an orchestra start playing live, it brings a tear to my eye. Literally. It's embarrassing.

So today I would like to raise my glass (of red, naturally) to Andrea; and my new flatmate, also a musician; and all those other unsigned musicians out there who make music because they love it, and because they are compelled to.

Things I love about London*

Eating char-grilled chorizo sausage in ciabatta with rocket and roast pepper (or capsicum, from my previous life) at the Borough Market.

The tube map.

Breast-stroking my way around the Ladies Bathing Pond at Hampstead Heath, dodging ducks and lily pads (after the shock of the cold water has worn off).

Reading the papers on the weekend - in particular, the Saturday Guardian and the Sunday Times. Especially if they are giving away free DVD's!

Sitting on the top deck of the 43 bus, lurching past the Bank of London, the Monument, and Tower Bridge as the sun rises over the Thames.

The vast Turbine Hall at the Tate Modern. It takes my breath away every time.

The incredibly detailed directions people give you ("..on your right, you'll see a window box full of violets, you want to head left past the Kings Head..if you reach a bridge with a chapel in the middle, you've gone too far..").

Taking your plush red velvet seats at the Royal Opera House as a hush falls over the crowd.

Walking along the cobblestones in Covent Garden, humming "Wouldn't it be luverly?" to yourself.

The transformation that takes place when it snows.

Drinking champagne at the Fumoir bar at Claridges (fancy!).

Shavasana at the end of a hard yoga class at the Life Centre in Notting Hill, lying blissfully on your back and gazing at the clouds drifting over the skylights.

Boarding the Eurostar at Waterloo and arriving at Gard du Nord in Paris 2.5 hours later.

The excitable audience at the Prince Charles Cinema.

The ridiculously varied regional accents.

The first note of the orchestral score at a West End musical, with excitement in the audience running high.

Looking at the ever-changing, always stunning shop window displays around Regent Street and Bond Street.

Feeling the weight of history under your feet and fingertips, everywhere you go.

*Please note: this list is subject to change or deletion at any time; especially when it has been raining throughout most of the "Summer". Thank you.

Melodramatic sigh

A quick update: I moved into my temporary home last night, which was weird, but not as bad as I thought it would be. The most traumatic part was packing up my flat earlier in the day and lugging the last of my stuff to work on the bus, crying all the way, my ex-boyfriend barely holding it together next to me. The situation between us is vastly complicated - we both care so much about each other, but we just couldn't seem to make it work. It is so sad.

However, I know now that I need to spend some time on my own to sort my head out before I can be in a successful relationship. If I'm not happy, my boyfriend is never going to be happy - certainly not enough to want to marry me and make a future with me. The truth is, maybe I will never be completely "happy" and maybe I will never be in a life-long relationship - and somehow, I have to come to terms with that.

A friend from work (the same one who came and looked after me when I got sick at the tube station), helped me lug my stuff all the way to Hampstead and kept me entertained with talk of the banana harmonica she is bidding for on ebay (100% true). My thanks go out to her and her fruit-instrument obsession.

* * * * *

I am reading Alan Bennett's "Untold Stories", which (so far) is about his family and the secrets, illnesses, and everyday struggles that seem to exist in almost all families once you get past the rosy public face. He describes, in his very gentle, precise style, his two independent aunties, who see themeslves as more daring and free-spirited than their timid, married middle sister. Both of them end up marrying late in life, but the husband of the eldest aunt dies not long into their married life and leaves her distraught and angry to have lost something she waited so long for. Bennett, drafted into driving her to the funeral, finds himself getting impatient with the show of emotions she "puts on", feeling she is hamming it up somewhat, uncomfortable with the uncontrolled display of her feelings.

This particular recollection really stung me. I have been accused of being melodramatic in the past, by a member of my family. I don't think I am a dramatic person generally - most people would describe me as cool, calm, shy, quiet, not in the habit of calling attention to myself - but I have always been at the mercy of my emotions. The strength of my emotions can leave me lying in a useless heap on the ground, too weak to stand; they can make me physically ill; or they can (very occassionally) lift me up to a state of bubbling excitement. I have always felt things very deeply, and taken everything to heart, privately. I feel my emotions are what hold me together; define me; are as much a part of me as my blood. To dismiss them as "put on", for the sake of creating "drama", is repulsive.

Anyway, most importantly, me and my thin skin are surviving. And I am feeling more on top of my emotions now (despite the current mess) than at any other point in my life, especially my early-to-mid twenties. What I am aiming for, ultimately, is an even keel. Oh, how I envy those emotionally-steady-as-a-rock people.

Message from the depths of self-pity

Wow, this week has been hard.

On the up-side, I finally found a new home, sharing with a lovely girl in North London (my allegiance to the North is complete), about half as close to work as I am now.

But, ohhh my stars, this week. Almost as soon as I had agreed to take the new place, I started to have doubts; and those doubts soon spun themselves into a full blown stress attack. It all hit me quite hard that I am going to be on my own. Again. My dreams in tatters. Starting over, for what feels like the hundredth time. Cue: near-fainting episode on the tube, a million commuters brushing by my huddled body. A guardian angel appears, whose kindness and concern provoke a flood-burst of tears. A colleague is called. I am given tea and put on a bus home once I feel well enough to stand and walk.

Thank god for the kindness of strangers (and workmates).

I am trying to work on my gratitude. I too easily fall into a state of self-pity and anxiety. I need to work out how to be thankful for what I have, and for those people around me who care and are helping me. Me, the lone wolf that I sometimes feel, proud of my independence but scared to let people see me as I really am. Which, right now, is a vulnerable mess. Putting on a brave face, because what else can I do but continue to function?

Me oh my.

Next week will be better.

Finding the spacious, bright, leafy and private needle in the big, stinky, overcrowded haystack

House-hunting. I must be some kind of masochist, becacuse I kind of enjoy it, in a guilty sort of way. Not that I'm looking forward to leaving my beautiful, private flat with the magnificent green view and (almost) private woodland paradise just around the corner. Or being on my own again after 4 years of cosy cohabitation. Or sharing with strangers.

But I do find it fascinating getting to peek into other people's lives; to see what sort of taste they have, whether they use their kitchen, how scrupulously clean or comfortably messy their home is, what posters they have up, the proliferation or conspicuous absence of books. And of course, I judge them accordingly.

The anal obsessive whose flat looks like a magazine spread.

The scruffy hippies who are mildly bewildered by my lame establishment job.

The young, irresponsible gits who think cocaine is like, the best thing EVER!

The guy with two overweight labradors in a tiny Hampstead flat.

The ones who watch Big Brother. Daily.

The goth girls who keep rats in a cage in the living room.

The naturist who believes in the "freedom, spirituality and exhiliration" of being nude at home (I didn't go to see that one).

The girls who work in "fashion", and have not a brain cell between them (obviously no books there).

It is entertaining. I am also enjoying seeing other parts of London and discovering new villages, which is kind of fun. I have been living in rather a posh area of North London, so it is good to know that there are nice, reasonably green areas that are a little more...diverse. And a little grungier. But that's ok. The people are (mostly) lovely.

* * *

Also: I think I saw Tori Amos on the tube the other weekend. Could that even be possible? Tori Amos takes the tube when she's in London? I know she lives in deepest Cornwall somewhere, so it is possible that she was on a day trip to the capital. Then again, maybe the lack of sleep is finally causing me to hallucinate.

In case you are wondering, I was too scared/awed to approach her. And I would have felt a total dick if it wasn't her.