Dear all,
All is well in the fashion world again, but I feel like i am coming back from the grave. I hope you didn't miss my posts too much (so presomptuous I know).
I find it funny how easily one can go off-balance, given the circumstances: a touch of family problems, a pinch of emotional trauma, a little moving out stress, a tad of worrying about friends, and 'bam', you suddenly end-up self-pitying in your sofa on a thursday night, eating only grapes in the hope that it will help you regain some control over your life.
As if.
Although I will say that for my 2 day grape detox: it felt good to avoid alcohol for 48 hours. I believe there is something slightly vicious about wine, in the sense that it can become quite easy to have a couple of glasses in the evening after a hard day, but then you feel weak and tired in the morning, so you need self-medicating the next evening, and before you know it, you forget what it feels like to wake up after a good alcohol-free night, because this odd tiredness that sticks with you has somehow become your natural morning state.
Yes I know, I need to register to AA.
Anyway, let me update you on this wonderfully interesting life of mine in the flying world of high-fashion and the dark abysses of personal drama.
When I came back from Lebanon, i found myself in a bit of a pickle: the landlord decided to refurbish the flat, so everybody needed to move out, and as you must know, finding a nice place in London in a good area on a fashion salary is pretty much like finding a zebra in a henhouse: very very rare.
However, after a few visits, two of my girlfriends and I unearthed the hidden pearl: a small three-bedroom flat on the second floor of an old Georgian building with white walls and moldings on ceilings. Okay, the floor is a little slanted and you feel like you're on the deck of a board (especially after a girls' night in), but it is quite pretty and cozy, there is hot water and pressure in a shower, and it in in the heart of bustling London, in-between Soho, Camden, Angel and Farringdon, 5 minutes away from the new Brunswick center: I am happy.
Happy happy happy but what price did I have to pay to get there...
All my fault I must admit: after my Middle-eastern experience, i started reading 'Into the Wild' followed by 'On the Road', and next thing you knew I felt quite the romantic and endeavoured to have the true bitnik experience, to test myself against the original elements of nature.
Yes, yes, you can laugh all you like: I still think I will do it for real at some point, trade my Zanotti stilettos and Prorsum jacket for cargo trousers and hi-top shoes, and go back-packing into the wild. Well, my real plan is to go across the US on Route 60, walking, hitch-hiking and sleeping outside or at the bon vouloir of chance acquaintaces all the way from Virginia Beach to Arizona. If I survive it should make for interesting posts.
In the mean time, I had a bit of a preview when I had to move, because I had 12 days to spare in-between flats: 'no problem', said my dear little colleague Miss G, 'I know just the place, my boyfriend is living in a houseshare in Finnsbury Park, and they have an attic that can be occupied'.
Intrigued, I go and visit the attic with her, and where i might have gone wrong is that I was just coming from the House of Holland after-party where there had been ... ahem... some champagne and few nibbles, so I arrived there in a very 'arty' state of mind: the attic looked very much like an attic, but through the prism of fashion week euphoria, I fancied seeing a wild space, decorated in a totally esoteric way, piano in the center of the room, one of these places where you could withdraw from the civilization for a little while and explore a million possibilities.
'Beautiful', said I, 'this is just what I am looking for', and handed them £50 for the stay.
Of course after a few days in there, reality did not miss a beat: the piano did not work, the electric heater gave out after 36 hours, and I will not mention the nightly rat and spider visits because really, i do not want to traumatize you with my nightmares.
No what was truly difficult to handle was the cold: the mattress was on the floor, the ceiling was not insulated, and when lying down, you could see a fine line of sky between the floor and the starting point of the roof: you could hear passer-bys' heels clicking on the pavement, and feel the air crossing from one side of the room to the other.
Of course, this is precisely the moment when British weather proceeded to break massively, so temperature dropped to zero degree, wind started blowing like mad and I woke up one morning in a cold sweat and with such a splitting headache that I could not turn my neck round. I am ashamed to say I cried a little...
Anyway, the 12 days were long and painful, and I was not too far from going completely mad when the deliverance date arrived and I moved to East London: but this was not the end of the adventure.
My new landlord is an interesting character, and he is not precisely what I would call 'charismatic'. One thing he cannot stand is people being late.
Fat chance: I nurture the French 'quart d'heure de politesse' (you can arrive 15 minutes late, it is still polite), to me it is one of the most beautiful inventions in French culture.
At any point, I ended up leaving work at the precise time I should have been signing my contract, and 10 minutes later while still in the cab, received a panicked phone call from new flatmate K saying ' the landlord won't let me in unless you and flatmate N arrive and we sign the contract.
... and I have all my stuff with me!!!'
Sure enough, when i got out of the taxi, she had boxes spread out from our street to Kings cross station.
Deep breath, I get in the building, enter the flat, sit down in the living room sofa (marking the territory), and apologize profusely for being late, big smile, flick of the hair, firm but the short skirt might have helped, and I come to an agreement with him: he will let flamate K put all her boxes in the hallway, and we will wait in the pub until Flatmate N arrives and we can all sign the contract together.
In the mean time he will go and see other tenants.
Finally N arrives almost an hour and 10 minutes late, when we are already half way through our first bottle of wine, and all is well that ends well.
Blessful heating!!! I have never appreciated it so much!
So now we are in, and there are no boys around, and no fights, and no flatmate coming back drunk and trying to climb a pipe because he forgot his keys, so no stories just as yet.
I love stories...
Surely they will come though.
I will get back to fashion soon, I have to update you on another tale in the mean time, which might be the beginning of an online campaign for Mr Burlington, who is a dear friend and who is in trouble, like only he can put himself in, dear adventurer.
Champagnista V
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