Heading to the East End Ain't I

Just, you know, chillaxing with the graf

One whinge too many

I almost despise holidays.  The only time they are good is in the build up of excitement before the event.  Then the event itself is touch and go.  It can be amazing - totally exceed expectations or it can totally suck.  We've all been there.  You end up hating your kids and husband so much you want to slit your throat.  Or theirs - but then it would be mass murder and you would spend your days in a strait jacket behind a door with one of those slider windows. Your hair would be all greasy and any visitors on Sundays would get really edgy around you - like if they made one false move they'd be a goner as well.  You'd try to explain - "I'm not going to kiff you ok, it was just one road trip too many", but it wouldn't make a difference.   On the other hand, if you do yourself in, then everyone would cry and say things like "Whhhhyyyyy?  She was so young, so full of life".  People would gaze at pictures of me smiling and think "If only I knew what she was going through - I would have bought her a solo train ticket in first class and a bottle of whiskey.....".  

This guy's struggling too

But back to vacations......so you come home, regardless of good or bad and it's all over.  For who knows how long?  Nothing to look forward to.  I'm telling you, it's not worth it.  Massages are in a similar vein for me.  You look forward to a massage, you anticipate the pleasure of it - and then while it's happening you know it's going to be over and you'll go back to normal life - i.e. not being rubbed nicely with oil in a soothing room.  Its too much to bear.  I'd rather not have one at all, I'm just anticipating their finish.  When they move to the legs, it's like - "Oh God, No - the legs.....fuck, now the right one - it's the final stage - I can't take the drawn out ending, just finish it already".  Meanwhile the massage therapist is thinking "Oh great the right leg, just a quick chop chop up and down and I can stop touching this slippery random with no undies on".  I can feel their happiness as the end draws nigh, while my misery grows ever more with each passing squeeze, and I don't like it I tell you.  Not at all.

But it was with high expectations for my three nights in London that I slid into a taxi at 7am bound for the airport.  Just me.  The ratpack left behind to fend for themselves.  No matter what, I love going to the airport.  Generally I despise the crappy process that comes after you pull up at the curb - but the driving to the airport is thrilling. I got my first little kink in the itinerary  when I received a phone call to inform me that my kids would not be able to spend the first night where I had originally planned.  This was an issue, seeing as I only agreed to the sleepover because I had no other options.  Basically I spent an hour ringing everyone I knew trying to sort my shit out.  And had no joy.  Perhaps a responsible mother would have backed up through security and sped home to rescue her little blonde bundles of love.  However, I have never claimed such a title.  I love my children with every fibre of my being, but I am as selfish as shit, so there was no way that was happening. I rang my husband - who was in London already - told him of the situation and prayed he'd be more effective than I was, as my boarded my flight.  

I feel for him, I just don't want to feel him

As I checked in I was informed that the flight was full, and that because I hadn't reserved a seat I had a middle one.  I assured the check-in lady that I could take the heat.  Secretly I was crying inside.  Ever since we ran out of airline points and now travel only in peasant class I regret we ever went up in the first place.  You should only ever move up, never down.  Don't go up unless you can afford to stay there.  The slide down is painful, physically painful.  To board that jam packed line with the rest of the rif raf, to be pushed from behind, and in turn and shove others past all the lounge chair beds with giant screens, and know that once you had a tiny taste of that good life....? It's hideous.  And to finally realise that you actually are rif raf yourself, and you were only posing in somebody else's life of privilege.......it's like a break through and a break down at the same time.  At this point I usually start screaming for a champagne until somebody slaps me and I slide into my seat and take 2 Valiums and pretend the world around me doesn't exist.  Unfortunately I neglected to take those previously mentioned oblivion pills this time round.  As I approached the back of the plane I noticed a morbidly obese man spilling into the aisle from his seat.  The kind of poor soul who really should have booked two seats.  I thought to myself "Well, then, there's my seat".  And of course it was.  Only it wasn't really mine.  It belonged to my companion's right thigh. He was so uncomfortable as well - like really jammed between the arm rests.  It took him a good 5 minutes of hard core heaving and puffing to stand up every time I needed to go to the toilet (and of course it was a lot of times - I like to hydrate during air travel). 

I was thinking that there was a chance for salvation, as the window seat was empty, and was just planning to make the transition across and allow poor Tubs to lift up one of those arm rests and let it all go.  Then of course our other row friend arrived.  This was a young dude who looked pretty much exactly like Borat, and stunk of BO.  It wasn't pretty.  His charm wasn't enhanced by the fact that he took his pants off mid flight.  I'm not exaggerating in any way.  The dude removed his jeans, and sat there in his underpants before finding some kind of Thai fisherman's pants in his backpack and slipping them on.  That incidentally involved some unappealing manoeuvring to get them over his bum.  I could not have shrunk further into myself, it's like I became a quarter of my size.  I had flesh sweating all over me on one side, and a thinly veiled penis air-thrusting on the other. Plus a migraine from wondering how Vali and Cordi were going to drive themselves home from school, get in the house, make their own dinner, run a bath, go to bed and take themselves back off to school in the morning.

This is typically what they do when no adults are around

But it's nice to know that all shit things come to an end as well as the good ones.  I said goodbye to Fleshy and Underpants and off I went into the buzz of good old London.  A fucking brilliant city.  I discovered on arrival that Cordi's guitar teacher was babysitting my children that evening.  A lovely lovely guy - but also a complete stoner, heavy metal guitarist with long hair and a possible aversion for baths.  I was unsure if he knew how to make toast, so wasn't quite confident in his ability to cook, dinner, do bath time and bedtime and teeth etc.  But he is really lovely and caring and the girls knew him - so that counts as a win in my book.  The girls had a blast - they were like "We stayed up so late and watched two movies and had two stories".  Ah, the good times when you're five.

The Ace hotel really is ace

It was good times for me too - staying in Shoreditch - which reached it's pinnacle of cool quite some years ago, and is now possibly on the decline (as evidenced when 40 year old tourists find out about it and roll up to stay in some 'too hip to be true' hotel).  I didn't care.  It was better in staying in some rip off piece of shit hotel in the centre and shoving for french toast at the breakfast buffet with grey haired seniors from Greece.  I felt so totally cool in the Ace Hotel on Shoreditch High Street, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.  Maybe I was 15 years older than the majority of the guests and my husband didn't have a beard and one of those giant ear lobe things, but with make up, sunnies, boots and tight jeans, I was fucking awesome.  Well at least in my own head I was, and that's where it counts everyone. 

Cray cray

I want to eat these and have sex with them

Smash

chillin'

Besties

Cruisin'

Busy

This flat white is genius dude

Shoreditch and Hackney have a reputation for being the hipster capitals of Europe.  Which leads me to a relevant form of discussion - hipsters. What are they, and do they actually exist anymore?  To call someone a hipster these days is basically an insult.  Hipsters don't want to be hipsters - they just want to be into the shit they're into.  The word hipster assumes a lack of credibility - who was that rapper that said 'you're just not passionate about the stuff your into'???? At some point in the last few years, the definition of hipster changed.  It used to be a term for a counter culture collective of young dudes living in Williamsburg, New York - and Hackney too. Now 'hipster' has transitioned into a term for people who 'looked, lived and acted a certain way'. The Urban Dictionary defines hipsters as "a subculture of men and women, typically in their 20s and 30s, that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics". But as I said before, now it's pretty much an insult. I read recently that 2014 was peak beard year (and I did notice that the 'mo' was huge in East London this time round) - so will hipsters cease to exist soon?  There's a theory that there's a certain delay before people realise they're all wearing the same clothes (and facial hair).  Apparently this delay is what causes a trend to form -  and ultimately - then self-destruct. "Each trend is self-destructive by its very nature, the only reason it becomes a trend is because people haven't yet fully caught on that we're all wearing the same clothes".  Hipster has simply become a word which means the opposite of authentic.  And nobody, especially hipsters, wants to be one.

Shoreditch may not be as 'hip' as it once was, but let me tell you, it is still bloody brilliant.  I had such a good time there and I recommend staying there to everyone.  The markets, the street art, the shops, the restaurants the atmosphere.  It kicks big arse.  Plus, when you want to go into the city you just jump in an Uber and off you go.  Or a train - but I'm really lazy and am 100% obsessed with Uber.  It's so easy - and so cheap.  You have to ask yourself, how are the regular black cabs coping with the massive price difference?  Who the fuck would ever take one, when you can Uber-it for peanuts?  I basically took an Uber to cross the road - and whenever my phone fucked up (because I chewed through my data by 'accidently' watching cat videos posted to facebook), I would have almost an hysterical break-down about how I was going to call my little Uber friends to pick me up.

Love this one

And this

Don't love this soooo much, but she sure is sparkley

Definitely love this shiz

Of course I ate some seriously delicious food.  As I had been on that shitful cleanse for a week beforehand, I really lost my mind over the grub.  I had no idea I was so sick of the sight of hummus either.  Somebody mentioned going to a Lebanese  restaurant and I almost threw up all over them.  I wanted fish and chips, baked beans, bacon (even though I'm a vegetarian), pims with strawberries and mint and shit in it, sticky toffee pudding......all of it, all the time.

Had totally forgotten how much I missed these suckers

  

Hi Vicky

The London shops were so good - I needed it because I'm terrified I'm becoming Israelised in a fashion sense.  I first got my suspicions when I bought a leopard print jumper dress last winter and started wearing leggings as pants, and it's just been a further decline ever since.  For instance today I'm wearing short shorts that are verging on too snug and a t-shirt with food stains on it.  And not just round the house either - I went out for breakfast looking like this.  I haven't brushed my hair for a couple of days either.  It was so good to glam it up in London - go somewhere normal (no offence Israel), and see normal shit.  You've got no idea. 

Plus I saw friends too, and by god didn't I feel all international and awesome saying "Yes, I'm just going to catch up with friends over there in London.  Yes, yes, I have friends every where actually - you name it, I have friends there....Nigeria you say???  Well, perhaps I do, and if I don't I will have after I visit there so fuck off smart arse".  Seeing you buddies is tops.  One of them lays claim to the fact that she set me and my husband up - I'm not sure what's she's angling at there but I think she wants some credit for the existence of my children.....the other one saved my sanity when we worked together at a demented job with even more demented work mates in Tokyo.  Both of them are aces, and we had serious amounts of good fun.

Love her so much, and am starting a petition to get her to Israel

Another close friend of mine

The lovely Mishka

The hoof shoe collection

One highlight was seeing the Alexander McQueen exhibition which really was quite something.  Although, I was a little intoxicated after downing a couple of glasses at lunchtime, and I got the giggles something bad while all the other people around me were trying to be all serious and talk fashion.  The man is a genius - that much is true.  It was unbelievable to me that not only did he have such incredible visions - but that he could make those visions into something tangible that now can be marvelled at and appreciated long after his sad demise.  However, with some of the really out there stuff, I started cracking myself up, imagining my friend wearing this giant feather gown and head piece to work, or just nipping down the shops for some bread in a metal frame an a piece of barb wire wrapped around her head.  And once I get the giggles like this, I cannot stop.  So basically me and my ex-work mate chum spent the entire time thinking up scenarios when she would wear a couple of baby alligator heads on her shoulders and the like, and wetting our pants laughing.  My other friend seemed to be keeping her distance from us, which was understandable...... I didn't blame her at all.  You really had to be there, but it was hysterical I promise...... 

This was our choice for her first Tinder date

Her outfit for her graduation dinner at Oxford

Office wear

Just get out of the lift buddy

One morning I was going up to the room from breakfast to quickly get my phone when the doors of the elevator opened on the ground floor.  There was a man in there.  But instead of getting out he just stood there staring.  He was totally hot, yet creepy looking.  I was turned on and terrified at the same time - and over-riding this, was a feeling of familiarity.  I said to him "What? You're not getting out".  And he replied simply "No".  The doors closed.  We were alone.  He cleared his throat, and then replied, "I accidentally went down so now I'm going back up".  It seemed a reasonable explanation so I answered "It happens I guess".  Really I wanted to ask him why he had a bath towel in his hand but my floor came too soon.  All the while I was reeling from his glorious Irish accent.  And as I got out of the lift I suddenly realised "He's that bloody actor guy - what the fuck is his name??!!??".  I was so excited, and I went back down to tell my husband.  He was far far less excited, and replied "Listen you don't even know who it is, so why do you want me to be excited".  I was like "It's the creepy, hot guy - you know him you know him!".  Then finally I had a movie to place him in - Batman!!!!  No, not Christian Bale, the scarecrow guy - the one with the hessian bag mask and the poison gas - you know right?? Cillian Murphy - that's who it was.

I hated him so much in this movie

Just one more picture.....

Just to make sure I wasn't deluded, I asked at the font desk if Cillian Murphy was staying there - the guy behind the front desk (yes, he had a large beard and a giant ear hole thing), replied "I dunno, and I really couldn't tell you if he was", but all the time he was denying it, he was nodding enthusiastically and winking at me "I get it dude, alright, I get it - stop winking at me".  So there we go - I was in the lift with Cillian Murphy and all I could manage to do was accuse him of not getting out at the ground floor.  What a wasted opportunity.  If I had my time again I would have got him to participate in a selfie where he would have his hands up as if to strangle me from behind, or maybe I could have got him to do a Dubsmash with me.  As anyone who's seen my instagram account lately realises, I am totally obsessed with Dubsmash (although I think I've moved on in the last week, so that's a good thing).  Basically I've been dressing my kids up in outfits and making them do it with me.  One of them is more obsessed than I am - but she just doesn't like the outfit part because they are not exactly right.  For example when I made her be Mugato from Zoolander she got all pissed off because she had to wear a black curly wig, when really he had white curly hair (I showed her the original clip to get her in the mood).  Just go with it love.......

So no, I didn't find any servants in the UK (as planned and discussed last time), but I did eat myself stupid, drink myself even more stupid, buy a few new clothes and face products (got ripped off by one of those pop up beauty product shops - the dude could spot a sucker from a mile away), go to bed late and sleep in for hours, swan around like I owned the place and chillaxed with my new celeb pals (and my regular chums I guess - but who needs them now I've got Cillian??), saw an exhibition by one of the greatest designers there has ever been and basically had 3 nights and four days of freedom.  And by the time I got back - my own children had transformed into servants anyway (see my Dubsmash video below) - so all was not lost after all. But now to come down to regular life.  I'm telling you, no matter how good it was, it's way over now, way over.....maybe I should get a massage......