With Older Sis safely deposited at the salon, I wander into a store, pulled in by the window display where flowers burst in the arms of faceless mannequins dressed to the nines in bright vests, bodycon skirts and skinny jeans.
I’m giving myself some time off.
Time off from worrying about ending contracts and new jobs. From agonising over what I put in my mouth, when it’ll show up on my hips, the size of my thighs in jeans. From job applications and university course lists and revised budgets; how much time I need to assign to studying, to reading, to writing.
I know it is Spring in London because…
- Everywhere I turn, I am slapped in the face by “SPRING MADNESS” and “Spring Frenzy!!” and “25% off Spring Fever Flash Sale” propaganda. But this has been happening since December 26th so maybe I shouldn’t count it.
- All the BBQ meat has been moved to the front of the freezers in the supermarket.
- There have been more than two consecutive days of sunshine and above freezing temperatures.
- I’m not so angry.
- Londoners are not so angry. You might even see a smile from a few of them.
- Flip flops are being sold everywhere.
- That daffodil farmers are struggling with a massive surplus is apparently front-page news.
- Wraparound sunglasses are being worn with alarming and douchetastic regularity.
- Women are getting harassed about 15.3% more. The sun gives asshats courage.
- Uggs aren’t violating my peripheral vision nearly as often.
First things first; big up to Patti who reminded me that it has been over a month since the last instalment in my “How to Annoy Me” series. Without you, Pattilicious, this post would have been lost in the basement of my brainhole for who knows how long.
I’d like to preface this with a small story. This is what happened to me on the way into work this morning as I sat unassuming and minding-my-own business in a window seat on the train:
I see a man lumbering down the aisle towards me. I think nothing of it as there are plenty of free seats around (I had physio this morning so I caught a later train) and those with common sense wouldn’t stuff themselves in the seat beside you when they could have six seats TO THEMSELVES. He paused, glanced around briefly and then cantilevered himself and his girth into the seat beside me.
Being the precocious, philanthropic, forward-thinking human being that I am (shut up, Big Bro), I decided that it was high time I became a property owner. I was going into my second year at university and had spent all of my first year watching friends and acquaintances above me scurry about like terrified beetles trying to find places to rent with their friends (this was before my university got wise to the fact that they could charge extortionate amounts for on-campus accommodation for second year students and because many people were clueless or so horrified at the prospect of living with their bestie who is cool for nights out but has a dangerous penchant for defecating with the door open, they would happily hand over an arm, a leg and possibly their firstborn to avoid such a fate.)
Stereo. 20-something aspiring bon vivant. London based. Exceptionally Nigerian. Partial to snark. My default setting is "wry". Jeans and blazers are my uniform. Landlady. Speed reader, tuneless singer, hoarder of words, drinker of Schloer; I am suspicious of most people, have zero tolerance for tomfoolery, have a vast DVD collection, worship at the altar of Al Green, own too many bottles of nail polish, have small eyes, small ears and giant hair and owe approximately 86% of my awesome to the Parents Typewriter.
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