You and Me
The Checks
Well you're dancing all through my mind like a girlfriend should
And my eyes are taped to you like I knew that you would
Oh take a picture and a bucket of tears and help yourself to the rain dear
Oh take a picture and a bucket of tears and help yourself to the rain dear
You got me caught for awhile, and I don't see no love
You made me cut back and smile, and I don't see no love
You and me
You must be all that I'm taking
Well you're dancing all around my room just like a girlfriend should
But it never amounts to truth like I knew that it could
Oh take a picture and a bucket of tears and help yourself to the rain dear
She don't dance
She don't dance
She don't do
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Monday, January 3, 2011
Even when there's nothing to write about
And so it is that time of year again. When promises are made, resolutions are formed, old habits are momentarily curtailed and new beginnings start to take shape. As a result, for about two weeks now I've been trying to figure out exactly how I feel about 2010. Why? Because until I do, I'm not entirely sure how to approach 2011.
People around me have been labelling 2010 as the best year of their lives, and so they enter 2011 with the same amount of gusto as they would as if they just knew 2011 was going to be the same. I, on the other hand, have a morbid fear of making grand statements like, 'Last year was the best year Ever.' Or, 'My life is Perfect.' Because it implies that my life has peaked in some way. That things are never going to be this good ever again. I'm more of a evaluate, re-evaluate, make goals, make new goals kind of person. Life is just boring otherwise. It stands still.
And so without further ado....
My first new year's resolution is to stop being such a friggen insomniac, so as to at least try and wake up before noon. My whole life all I ever wanted was a job that let me wake up without an alarm clock. Now I have one and somehow in the blink of an eye entire days are being wasted. Entire days in London are being wasted. As good as my skin is looking with all this beauty sleep, I miss waking up at an hour when the day still has potential.
Speaking of potential, my second resolution- travel more. Well, to be precise, travel a lot. My goal is to see a new city every month for the next six months. I also have some romantic notion of saving up some money, packing a bag and seeing where I end up. I always found that the most memorable places and events were the ones you kind of stumbled upon when you were lost somewhere. I want to get lost more often.
Which brings me to my last resolution.
A few weeks ago a friend of mine and I went and saw a psyhic for a laugh. Located in a New Age bookstore down a little alleyway near Leicester Square, this 70 year old man looked at the lines on my hands, stroked his beard thoughtfully, then pulled out his little diary, it's pages scrawled with tiny handwriting. He gestured at his notebook as he explained that I should start writing everyday, even when I have nothing to say.
To really bring home his message, when I tried to find my blog online (yes, terrible, I had to go searching for it) I found a url very similar to my own which lead me to ... another Kelly, Living in London. And evidently living in London better than me. She went to Dublin too. And to the Guiness factory. She even took a photo of the shamrocker they etch in your Guinness. Just like I wanted to but my camera failed to capture.
So, here is the first entry, albeit 3 days late, for which is sure to be 2011's greatest challenge- write something every single day, even when you think you have nothing to write about.
Game. On.
People around me have been labelling 2010 as the best year of their lives, and so they enter 2011 with the same amount of gusto as they would as if they just knew 2011 was going to be the same. I, on the other hand, have a morbid fear of making grand statements like, 'Last year was the best year Ever.' Or, 'My life is Perfect.' Because it implies that my life has peaked in some way. That things are never going to be this good ever again. I'm more of a evaluate, re-evaluate, make goals, make new goals kind of person. Life is just boring otherwise. It stands still.
And so without further ado....
My first new year's resolution is to stop being such a friggen insomniac, so as to at least try and wake up before noon. My whole life all I ever wanted was a job that let me wake up without an alarm clock. Now I have one and somehow in the blink of an eye entire days are being wasted. Entire days in London are being wasted. As good as my skin is looking with all this beauty sleep, I miss waking up at an hour when the day still has potential.
Speaking of potential, my second resolution- travel more. Well, to be precise, travel a lot. My goal is to see a new city every month for the next six months. I also have some romantic notion of saving up some money, packing a bag and seeing where I end up. I always found that the most memorable places and events were the ones you kind of stumbled upon when you were lost somewhere. I want to get lost more often.
Which brings me to my last resolution.
A few weeks ago a friend of mine and I went and saw a psyhic for a laugh. Located in a New Age bookstore down a little alleyway near Leicester Square, this 70 year old man looked at the lines on my hands, stroked his beard thoughtfully, then pulled out his little diary, it's pages scrawled with tiny handwriting. He gestured at his notebook as he explained that I should start writing everyday, even when I have nothing to say.
To really bring home his message, when I tried to find my blog online (yes, terrible, I had to go searching for it) I found a url very similar to my own which lead me to ... another Kelly, Living in London. And evidently living in London better than me. She went to Dublin too. And to the Guiness factory. She even took a photo of the shamrocker they etch in your Guinness. Just like I wanted to but my camera failed to capture.
So, here is the first entry, albeit 3 days late, for which is sure to be 2011's greatest challenge- write something every single day, even when you think you have nothing to write about.
Game. On.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Boris Bikes...will Kelly bike?
There's a bit of a cult following in London at the moment.
They're called Boris's bikes, named after London's mayor, whose full name I really cannot recall right now. (I think it might be Johnson. I really should have just said Boris Johnson in the first place, none of you would know the difference.) Anyway. He's a cycling fanatic, so in an effort to cut down on congestion and be more environmentally friendly, Boris concocted a "crazy" scheme for London's would-be bikers. (Actually it's all very ironic as I have it on good authority that Boris nearly caused a bus accident once on his bike.)
So. There are 'biking docks' stationed all over the city. They hold about twenty bikes per station. You pay as you go (40 pounds for a year's membership), and if your journey is under 30 minutes it's free. The scheme has had some teething problems, but they're becoming rather popular. Aside from the fact that the bikes are embarassingly new (squeaky clean and shiny, much like new white shoes) they really do seem rather convienent. They're cheap, or free, depending on your journey. They're faster than the bus, tube or taxi, plus you get some exercise and a good strong dose of fresh air.
Actually, cycling the city streets in London is already Big. Cyclists are as prevalant on the roads as buses and taxis. I've really come to admire those that don't mind flipping death in the face, and riding out where the double-deckers are. I particularly enjoy watching the businessmen with their briefcases and suits, or the women in their sweet pencil skirts and trainers.
I'd dismissed the idea of cycling to work as soon as I'd considered it. Too dangerous, I figured. But then my new flatmate kindly pointed out to me that Camden Council do cycling lessons for those wanting to brave the streets.
Well, I wouldn't be able to afford lessons, even if I wanted to, I flatly decided.
Turns out they're free.
Well even so, I thought, I haven't even seen any bike docking stations near West Hampstead, let alone in West Hampstead. (Some boroughs are so snooty their councils haven't adopted the scheme because they don't want to ruin the beautiful streets with ugly blue bikes.) And I haven't seen any at my end route in Marylebone either.
So there must be none at either end, I decided.
But as it turns out Boris has made it Super Easy for noobs like me and has created online cycling routes for us neophites.
Apparantely this is my route:
http://cyclejourneyplanner.tfl.gov.uk/cycleXSLT_TRIP_REQUEST2
Looks fairly complicated. I'm quite sure I will die...
But I might go for a trial run this weekend.
What do we think? And if it all blows up in my face i.e if I get hit by a double-decker...well, I'll just take the tube from then on. Much warmer in winter anyway.
They're called Boris's bikes, named after London's mayor, whose full name I really cannot recall right now. (I think it might be Johnson. I really should have just said Boris Johnson in the first place, none of you would know the difference.) Anyway. He's a cycling fanatic, so in an effort to cut down on congestion and be more environmentally friendly, Boris concocted a "crazy" scheme for London's would-be bikers. (Actually it's all very ironic as I have it on good authority that Boris nearly caused a bus accident once on his bike.)
So. There are 'biking docks' stationed all over the city. They hold about twenty bikes per station. You pay as you go (40 pounds for a year's membership), and if your journey is under 30 minutes it's free. The scheme has had some teething problems, but they're becoming rather popular. Aside from the fact that the bikes are embarassingly new (squeaky clean and shiny, much like new white shoes) they really do seem rather convienent. They're cheap, or free, depending on your journey. They're faster than the bus, tube or taxi, plus you get some exercise and a good strong dose of fresh air.
Actually, cycling the city streets in London is already Big. Cyclists are as prevalant on the roads as buses and taxis. I've really come to admire those that don't mind flipping death in the face, and riding out where the double-deckers are. I particularly enjoy watching the businessmen with their briefcases and suits, or the women in their sweet pencil skirts and trainers.
I'd dismissed the idea of cycling to work as soon as I'd considered it. Too dangerous, I figured. But then my new flatmate kindly pointed out to me that Camden Council do cycling lessons for those wanting to brave the streets.
Well, I wouldn't be able to afford lessons, even if I wanted to, I flatly decided.
Turns out they're free.
Well even so, I thought, I haven't even seen any bike docking stations near West Hampstead, let alone in West Hampstead. (Some boroughs are so snooty their councils haven't adopted the scheme because they don't want to ruin the beautiful streets with ugly blue bikes.) And I haven't seen any at my end route in Marylebone either.
So there must be none at either end, I decided.
But as it turns out Boris has made it Super Easy for noobs like me and has created online cycling routes for us neophites.
Apparantely this is my route:
http://cyclejourneyplanner.tfl.gov.uk/cycleXSLT_TRIP_REQUEST2
Looks fairly complicated. I'm quite sure I will die...
But I might go for a trial run this weekend.
What do we think? And if it all blows up in my face i.e if I get hit by a double-decker...well, I'll just take the tube from then on. Much warmer in winter anyway.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Now what?
Things have been so hectic I nearly forgot I had a blog. Nearly.
In one week I've managed to score myself a job and a flat.
Did you ever watch those Western films and the guys are running along beside the train which is steaming past them on the tracks, and they're running and running to try and get a leg up on one of the trailers? And then there's a sense of relief once they manage to run fast enough and hoist themselves up?
That's the closest I can get to describing my relief at finding my feet in a completely different world. I feel like I'm a proper contributing member of society now. And hey, maybe I actually am. My job entails finding people work (yes, the irony is impeccable).
But I have to admit, a quick sense of elation was also met with an impending sense of doom. So...now I have a job and a house I can say I've done 'it', right? I've came to see if I could do it, and I can, so lets go home?
A weekend of being in a strange home without Internet access nearly did my head in. I've realised how much I've come to rely on the Internet. Which is kind of sad, in a way. Back in the olden days when people did their OE they had to rely on snailmail. How privileged am I to be able to send photos to my parents? To show them my new room? To tell them how my day went? To keep up with my friend's social antics?
So I've decided the hard part isn't actually over. Oh contraire.
In fact, the hard part is just beginning. How to maintain a life in London?
I've got the basics down. A roof over my head, a job, a few friends here and there. But what else is there? Hobbies? Classes? A social circle? Dates? Events? More travel?
Do watch this space.
And to finish off this post which wasn't about anything other than reminding you that I'm still
alive...here is one of my favorite spots in London, which reminds me that I am...in London.
In one week I've managed to score myself a job and a flat.
Did you ever watch those Western films and the guys are running along beside the train which is steaming past them on the tracks, and they're running and running to try and get a leg up on one of the trailers? And then there's a sense of relief once they manage to run fast enough and hoist themselves up?
That's the closest I can get to describing my relief at finding my feet in a completely different world. I feel like I'm a proper contributing member of society now. And hey, maybe I actually am. My job entails finding people work (yes, the irony is impeccable).
But I have to admit, a quick sense of elation was also met with an impending sense of doom. So...now I have a job and a house I can say I've done 'it', right? I've came to see if I could do it, and I can, so lets go home?
A weekend of being in a strange home without Internet access nearly did my head in. I've realised how much I've come to rely on the Internet. Which is kind of sad, in a way. Back in the olden days when people did their OE they had to rely on snailmail. How privileged am I to be able to send photos to my parents? To show them my new room? To tell them how my day went? To keep up with my friend's social antics?
So I've decided the hard part isn't actually over. Oh contraire.
In fact, the hard part is just beginning. How to maintain a life in London?
I've got the basics down. A roof over my head, a job, a few friends here and there. But what else is there? Hobbies? Classes? A social circle? Dates? Events? More travel?
Do watch this space.
And to finish off this post which wasn't about anything other than reminding you that I'm still
alive...here is one of my favorite spots in London, which reminds me that I am...in London.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Nice work, if you can get it
"Yeah, I was punched in the stomach once in Brixton, and another girl got spat at," Mikayla says casually when I enquire if people ever get nasty towards fundraisers.
There are three of us around a watercooler "talking shop".
"Not to me, maybe 'cause I'm a guy," says Rory.
A twenty-something, red-headed Irish guy, Rory is an old-hand as a clipboard-wielding fundraiser. You know, one of those people who stand on the street and ask for 'one minute- just one minute!'
He used to work full-time for another fundraising company but they wouldn't let him have Saturdays off to play Gaelic football, so here he is with me, trialing for another company.
We've just completed a half-hour stint on the street. We had to stop and ask people for their top five favorite films. Apparantely we're not being tested on how many people we get to stop, but how we get them to stop- how we 'engage them'.
"The trick is not to ramble on about the charity. You've got to gain their trust, befriend them, get them to trust you. The longer you get them to stay, the more likely you are to get them to sign up," Rory tells me.
See what I mean about an old-hand.
Mikayla swore she wouldn't get back into fundraising after losing her old job. But the money is too good and the hours too flexible.
"I would ring up and tell them I was hungover and they'd give me the day off- and they'd pay for it too," she says.
The company we're trialing for today is offering 350 pounds for a 40 hour week, which will increase to about 500 pounds after we've been with them for 12 weeks. That's about $1000 a week. Definitely enough money to minimalise the pain of being in one of the world's most hated professions.
You have to meet quotas though, surely?
Apparantely not, Gerald, the company's recruitment officer tells me.
He says if you focus on trying to get numbers then you tend to rush people through the process of donating and it's more likely they'll change their mind. Or complain.
There are lots of complaints.
"I nearly got fired because there had been some complaints about a guy named Byron, and they assumed since the names were similar, that it was me," says Rory.
Mikayla agrees, "I signed someone up to two different donation programs so theythought I was pulling a scam and I got suspended."
By the end of our chat Mikayla and Rory were both gainfully employed. I however, was not.
Something about seeing a crowd of people and looking petrified.
Well, it's not for everyone. But it's a fascinating job. Nice work, if you can get it.
There are three of us around a watercooler "talking shop".
"Not to me, maybe 'cause I'm a guy," says Rory.
A twenty-something, red-headed Irish guy, Rory is an old-hand as a clipboard-wielding fundraiser. You know, one of those people who stand on the street and ask for 'one minute- just one minute!'
He used to work full-time for another fundraising company but they wouldn't let him have Saturdays off to play Gaelic football, so here he is with me, trialing for another company.
We've just completed a half-hour stint on the street. We had to stop and ask people for their top five favorite films. Apparantely we're not being tested on how many people we get to stop, but how we get them to stop- how we 'engage them'.
"The trick is not to ramble on about the charity. You've got to gain their trust, befriend them, get them to trust you. The longer you get them to stay, the more likely you are to get them to sign up," Rory tells me.
See what I mean about an old-hand.
Mikayla swore she wouldn't get back into fundraising after losing her old job. But the money is too good and the hours too flexible.
"I would ring up and tell them I was hungover and they'd give me the day off- and they'd pay for it too," she says.
The company we're trialing for today is offering 350 pounds for a 40 hour week, which will increase to about 500 pounds after we've been with them for 12 weeks. That's about $1000 a week. Definitely enough money to minimalise the pain of being in one of the world's most hated professions.
You have to meet quotas though, surely?
Apparantely not, Gerald, the company's recruitment officer tells me.
He says if you focus on trying to get numbers then you tend to rush people through the process of donating and it's more likely they'll change their mind. Or complain.
There are lots of complaints.
"I nearly got fired because there had been some complaints about a guy named Byron, and they assumed since the names were similar, that it was me," says Rory.
Mikayla agrees, "I signed someone up to two different donation programs so they
By the end of our chat Mikayla and Rory were both gainfully employed. I however, was not.
Something about seeing a crowd of people and looking petrified.
Well, it's not for everyone. But it's a fascinating job. Nice work, if you can get it.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Welcome to London
Something highly frightening happened to me last night. I was mid KFC gorging when I realised the emergency exit sign read, 'In an emergency dial 999'.
It dawned on me then that up until that point I had had no idea what Britain's emergency number was. Surely the most basic thing you should know about a country is what number you should dial in dire circumstances. And then I realised, I'd been spending so much time wrapped up in my own mini dramas that I wasn't really noticing London. All my blogs have been about me, me, me and I have yet to even introduce London to y'all, despite the fact that London features more prominently in this blog title then Kelly does.
So, London this is everybody, and everybody this is London....
So, London this is everybody, and everybody this is London....
This is Speaker's Corner at Hyde Park, just off Oxford Street. The idea is that anybody can come here and say whatever they like (embracing free speech).
And this is Hyde Park, pretty much my favorite place to go in the city because it's so big and green!
Second to Hyde Park would be Regent's Park which has an amazing outdoor theatre that I must visit one day...
This is Portobello Road...
This is the amazing red velvet cupcake I got from Hummingbird Bakery on Portobello Road....
And these are the houses on Portobello Road...
This is my favorite street- Great Portland Street- off Oxford Street. On the left is my tailors. One the right is Toni and Guy.
And if you face this way, Urban Outfitters is on the left corner and Topshop and Miss Selfridges is on the right corner.
After I'm done drooling over clothes, spending money or going for an interview, this is where I have my toasted avocado and turkey sandwich and coffee. They have free papers and the most delicious looking pastries.
This is the Globe theatre where Shakespeare used to put on his plays. (Actually it's a replica.) We had the cheap seats. Obviously.
This is the pub in Swiss Cottage. The food is as good as my mums.
This is Swiss Cottage
Thursday, August 26, 2010
The trouble with fate
I've never been the religious type. I don't really know anybody who is. But I do have a very handy knack for explaining away the (good and bad) things that occur in my life. "It was meant to be." Or alternatively, it wasn't meant to be. This is commonly known as fate and closely entertwined with destiny. Fate dictates that you have a designated life path and despite what you may do to veer off it, everything that is supposed to happen, will. Eventually.
I pulled this little story off Wiki which sums it up nicely:
"Death speaks: There was a merchant in Baghdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions and in a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, 'Master, just now when I was in the market place I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw that it was Death that jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture; now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there Death will not find me.' The merchant lent him his horse, and the servant mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop he went. Then the merchant went down to the marketplace and he saw me standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, 'Why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning?' 'That was not a threatening gesture,' I said, 'It was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Baghdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.' "
So there we go. We use this convienent theory to explain away life's mistakes, life's lessons, life's more unsual paths, it's failings. Personally, I've used this phrase alot over the past few weeks. When homes I find are given to somebody else, I tell myself it's because there's a better one out there for me. When I don't hear back from countless job applications I tell myself it's to increase my motivation. When I don't get the job, it's because it wasn't meant to be.
But now I'm starting to wonder. How many times can we use this excuse? If it really wasn't meant to be then why didn't something stop me for applying for the job? If there really is a specific path that I am supposed to be taking then why does there seem to be endless detours? In practical terms, perhaps I should just kick back and take it easy. Stop applying for jobs, stop looking for homes. The right one will find me surely, if it's meant to be.
Wouldn't that be an interesting experiment.
I pulled this little story off Wiki which sums it up nicely:
"Death speaks: There was a merchant in Baghdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions and in a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, 'Master, just now when I was in the market place I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw that it was Death that jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture; now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there Death will not find me.' The merchant lent him his horse, and the servant mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop he went. Then the merchant went down to the marketplace and he saw me standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, 'Why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning?' 'That was not a threatening gesture,' I said, 'It was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Baghdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.' "
So there we go. We use this convienent theory to explain away life's mistakes, life's lessons, life's more unsual paths, it's failings. Personally, I've used this phrase alot over the past few weeks. When homes I find are given to somebody else, I tell myself it's because there's a better one out there for me. When I don't hear back from countless job applications I tell myself it's to increase my motivation. When I don't get the job, it's because it wasn't meant to be.
But now I'm starting to wonder. How many times can we use this excuse? If it really wasn't meant to be then why didn't something stop me for applying for the job? If there really is a specific path that I am supposed to be taking then why does there seem to be endless detours? In practical terms, perhaps I should just kick back and take it easy. Stop applying for jobs, stop looking for homes. The right one will find me surely, if it's meant to be.
Wouldn't that be an interesting experiment.
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