A blog post from February…
One of the things I haven’t been really good at doing is staying home. Don’t get me wrong, I am a bit of a homebody. But, since moving here, I’ve been trying to put myself out there a bit to meet new people, get involved in new activities, and see as much of the city and countryside as I possibly can. But, because of the pending (well, not so pending anymore) inclement weather of SNOWMYGOD!, I couldn’t have been arsed today to leave and walk in the snow to go to a pub, to walk in the park, to head to the grocery store for the rations of Coke Zero, cranberry juice and vodka that I need to get through the day (kidding – well, at least on the alcohol). Instead after doing half of my errands, getting my head shaved and beard trimmed at NV Barbers on in Shoreditch, eating a decadent lunch at Hawksmoor Spitalfields, I came home to my flat at around 1400.
I immediately became one with the sofa, remote in hand, rugby on the plasma screen, home knitted Afghan over my body, IKEA cushons under my head. Since my lunch included two outrageously delicious classic cocktails: a Marmalade Cocktail to start, and a Corpse Reviver #2, I passed out on the sofa with a belly full of steak, eggs, chips and toast and a foggy head sleeping through most of the first match on BBC1 HD and the beginning of the second. Strange dreams involving my friends from Michigan Peter, Rachel and Tarek, a marching band, Blackened Chicken Alfredo and Kirk Herbstriet ensued and I awoke a few hours later with absolutely no desire to go and do anything.
I know it sounds pretty boring and old fashioned, but, I couldn’t tell you the last time – even over the two week holiday break for Christmas and New Years – where I just stayed home, puttering around the house, and actually enjoying my own company, by myself. I watched the first episode of the new series of Top Gear – a show both passionately loved and maligned, sometimes by the same person in the same breath. It’s a car show for the petrol/gearheads and the average driver, with three hosts who are almost British institutions. I say almost, because every time that they come close to being loved and adored, they fuck it up with an off the cuff remark or insult to entire cultures or institution. I personally love it, even though host Jeremy Clarkson offends people’s sensibilities on a regular basis. Don’t believe me? look here, here, and here. Personally, I think they’re in on the joke, and use some of it for publicity.
I also ordered groceries using the Ocado on the go app for my Windows Phone 7. I’ve spoken before about my unabashed love affair with Ocado, but, this smartly written, extremely reliable app allowed for me to not move my lazy day on the sofa to buy my food for the week and have some lovely delivery man cart it up here to my fourth floor flat – with minimal extra charge. Tesco, Sainsburys and Asda also have similar delivery services, but the app made it seamless. And it’s pretty. Oh, and did I mention? They deliver booze, too.
After the grocery ordering, I hunkered into leftover Indian takeaway, and switched TV gears – getting sucked into Casualty, a combination of EastEnders, General Hospital, ER and Touched by an Angel. This trainwreck of a show gets high air time on a Saturday night – but most of the dialogue would make many English speaking authors cringe. Combine it with the pathos and sturm und drang of American soap operas, and you have a Stilton fest extraordinaire. Pull me away from the TV and force a classic book in my hand if it happens again.
All in all, a night home was pretty therapeutic in its’ own odd way. But, I can’t imagine I will make it a habit.
American Expat in London 