At Station 43 (aka Audley End House) learnin' about the SOE.
Observation of the day: small town girls are scary!
My kid calmly retorts "but you are one."
Kid retrieved from his stateside sojourn, and now we're back in Cambridge making frijoles de la olla, mole poblano, and tortillas from scratch.
I had a lovely dinner with my agent, during which I studiously avoided questions like "what are you working on?"
Later in the week I was thwarted by capitalism yet again, and retaliated by purchasing another Comme des Garcons bag.
Now I'm reading vintage house porn during the waning hours of this holiday....
Lolling around London Fields I observed intrepid young entrepreneurs selling homemade cocktails to a thirsty public, other people wandering around chatting with strangers.
Someone approached and asked "Can I have your number?"
Back in the land of responsibility, today I learned that it is impossible to order school uniforms unless you know the relevant "house colour."
Earlier in the week I spent the whole night in a Soho members-only club. Last night I got trapped in the mosh pit at the antifolk festival. Both evenings ended on the highly entertaining nightbus. I love it; I make so many new .... friends.
I'm supposed to go out again shortly but really, am I too tired for another London all nighter? Or perhaps just too... lazy?
If I do go out, I have to decide what to wear. Life is so treacherous!
New on HM:
The Face of Reform by Natalie O'Reilly
Cover blown. One of the regular customers at my favorite cafe asked "so, you are a journalist?"
Something I wrote for The Guardian:
Lucky dress is out on the town, frazzled authoress contained within. Ever tried to meet a deadline while on a train, with only an iPhone and index finger at your disposal?
I'm on an extended working vacation in London but had to take a break from wanton hedonism to go back to Cambridge to pick up my prescription refills.
You know, those drugs that I must take to remain alive. The stuff I get for free because I live in a country with rational health policies.
I am both amazed and extremely thankful I never knew about Dover Street Market before today.
I just bought a Comme des Garcons bag and am reeling in profligate shock.
While I forgot to book my own tickets, I did manage to organize a visit home for my recalcitrant teenager.
In preparation for the flight to the states I allowed him to purchase gum for the first time ever.
My twentieth high school reunion is commencing in Bremerton, WA. While I seem to be wandering around .... London. England.
The twenty-first anniversary of the accident slipped by without acknowledgment.
The days have been a mad swirl of activity, with coffee dates at the Front Room, excursions to Highgate Cemetery, picnics at the Thames Barrier, tickets for Le Cirque Invisible, entire days devoted to the BFI...
One afternoon next to the river I said "tide out, table set" and my kid didn't know what the heck I was talking about. This demonstrates a truly shocking lack of knowledge about Pacific Northwest history and.... chowder chains.
Bar Italia, Soho
This morning I tried to grab a cup of coffee at Rough Trade but got caught in the middle of a fashion shoot. I did not consent! I do not like! In fact, it is fair to say I loathe Shoreditch, and love Southbank.
Away to London to take my kid for his annual pre-grandma haircut. I can heartily recommend Chaps and Dames in Finsbury Park. Right next door to my favorite cafe in the city (The Front Room) and also, where else can you find opera singing barbers?
Gabriel and Danielle have given notice they are moving out of my Portland house; the end of an era! That sweet little family has lived there longer than I ever did.
Despite long-distance pressure from real estate developers and lascivious locals, I will not be selling.
I bought a derelict but promising property in a crack corridor in 1996. I made it habitable, and then resisted touching the equity as the neighborhood gentrified to become what is arguably the niftiest on the west coast.
Passerby and even the occasional neighbor have tried to buy it off me at a deep discount because they think, as the only shabby holdover from old times, the owner doesn't understand the market. This is a category error. I might be lazy but I'm not stupid.
The house is both beloved and my only strategic concession to saving for the future. I have no pension, but I also have no debt. My mortgage can't go underwater; in this way and perhaps no other, I was quite a clever kitten. And regardless of the antics of the economy, I will always have a place to live if I want to go back.
I couldn't otherwise afford to buy there now, for sure - the area is painfully perfect and priced to match.
Though I do admit the house needs work. I am going to paint it in tribute to the constructivism movement (because I can't afford to cover it in mirrors), and I will be looking for new tenants soon. FYI.
While running errands (as that appears to be my purpose in life) I developed a new and overwhelming goal: to live in a town tourists would never even consider visiting.
Oh, and my finger still hurts - updates will be brief by necessity.