Londonward

This past weekend it hit me. I live in London and actually quite like it.

Finally.

I’m woozily standing at the counter at my local chip shop, ordering a veggie burger and chips. A man comes up on my left, shaking the hand of the proprietor, greeting him with a Salaam Aleikum. The two girls sitting down waiting for their order come up as the proprietor stacks them up into two bags. It makes me slightly ill to watch the bloated one pay for 4 chicken burgers, two beef burgers and 4 hot wings. Who knows, maybe she’s feeding a family. Ugh, I don’t want to know.

The guy behind the counter takes a big bit of battered chicken and hands it directly to the guy who’s just come up. “Do me a favour,” he says, gesturing to the man. He takes the chicken and walks out to the door where his giant bulldog waits patiently, scaring the two girls who are on their way out. I turn away, the combined thought of the girls’ order and the dog’s chicken meal hardening my arteries to the point where my relatively tame meal (though still suitably deep fried) just feels pointless.

I end up eating it, though, sat at the kitchen table. Now, sleep. Glorious sleep.

London smells exactly the same it did 2 years ago when I first arrived in the country. The mixture of cigarette smoke, exhaust fumes, human activity in all its forms and the general pervasive stench of late September London will probably never go away.

I completely don’t feel like I’m about to start another year of uni in a week and a half. I’m working full days, I’ve got a social calendar bursting with stuff and I should handle some preparation and Students’ Union stuff as well. As long as the year doesn’t start like a rug being pulled from under my feet I think I’ll be fine.

This morning, I bought a breakfast sandwich from a little Italian shop near Red Lion Square. It was obviously a family affair, with lookalike father and son putting together sandwiches behind a massive glass display of various panini, ciabattas an fillings. They greeted each of their established customers by name, exchanging pleasantries along with the money. Sure, when my turn came the mozzarella and tomato sandwich was on white bread which I’m not too keen on, but the guy slapped on fresh basil and extra virgin olive oil which made it really, really nice. I was sent on my way with friendly well-wishes which seemed genuine.

I also had my first haircut at an actual shop in London. I’d managed to avoid it until now due to having a contact who’d do it semi-regularly for free, but having a shaggy mop eventually just got the better of me and I marched into the hairdressers nudged into the corner of the LSE campus. I’m somehow self-conscious of haircuts, but this one ended up not being a disaster… At least comments so far have been positive-or-neutral or “oh, you had a hair-cut”.

Should I have tipped? Probably. Oops. Well, I’m burning a hole in my finances already, so I’ll let it slide this once.