London Kills Me

Back in the bad old days of corporate whoredom I had to travel to the capital a lot and hated it. A city full of miserable tossers who wouldn't give you the time of day, barging you out of their way on the tube, slamming doors in your face and looking at you like you were a raving nutter if you dared strike up a conversation with them.

But, with the lovely Suzanne jetting in from New York for a week I couldn't miss the chance to meet her and, when La Dama and Lakota said they'd come too, I was searching the internet like a woman demented looking for the cheapest train fare going so I could meet these wonderful women I've known virtually for years. Finally I snaffled a £20 return and off I went.

The day started off brilliantly,  a couple of ladies on the train loved my outfit so much they moved seats so they could sit and look at me and we had a riot for the 2 and a half hour journey down there.

After we met up at Euston station there was much squealing & hugging & kissing. Lakota took charge. (I honestly don't think we'd have got further than the pub across the road from Euston Station if she hadn't.) 

Armed with a map and a list of cool stuff she got us safely to Whitechapel where we puzzled over maps and posed in alleyways where Jack the Ripper stalked his prey.

We wandered to Brick Lane, oohed and ahhed over architecture, graffiti, random art, shop windows and a cute poodle called Louis. 

We were cat-called, photographed and photographed some more. Traffic stopped, crowds gathered, people came out of shops to say hello, it was like Chesterfield market on acid. 

We plonked ourselves outside a crêperie in Spitalfields, posed for more photos and got complimented by all and sundry. Credit to the staff, we must have sat at the prime table for half-an-hour before even looking at a menu.

The obligatory exchange of gifts amidst much squealing.

Photo by Dora

Didn't I do well?

After lunch we posed like prostis, before hitting the famed vintage emporiums of Brick Lane.

Photo of me by Lakota

I'm not buying any shit, I'd told Dora in an email last week, but we all know I'm a total tart and at £10 there's no way this velvet psychedelic number wasn't coming home with me. (Where did this vicious rumour about vintage clothes being ridiculously overpriced in London come from? I know vintage dealers locally who charge 5 times more).

Photo by Dora

Dora bought bad ass steampunk sunglasses and a 1970s gypsy skirt, Suzanne found a cheongsam in a £1 bin,

Photo by Dora

 Dora bought bad ass steampunk sunglasses and a 1970s gypsy skirt, Suzanne found a cheongsam in a £1 bin, but Lakota turned down this amazing 1980s party dress 'cos it showed her gusset (as if that should have stopped her).

In no time at all it was time to catch the train back to the Midlands and to say our goodbyes. What can I say? Suzanne is feisty and fabulous, Lakota is gorgeous, witty and a brilliant tour guide and La Dama is a work of art and a joy to be with. I can't wait till we meet again.

The journey home was just as much fun even the train staff ask us to pose for photos, I had a laugh with the pinstriped businessmen sitting opposite who kindly shared their samosas and I exchanged email addresses with the chick I sat next to. I've definitely changed my preconceptions of London (well, the East part, at least). I can't wait to go back.

Photo by Dora

I've a house that looks like a charity shop exploded, four dinner party guests arriving in a matter of hours, nothing in the fridge and I'm still in my kimono. Time to get my arse into gear!

Have a fab weekend.