In Which Our Heroine Moves House
Ah, getting ready to move house again. I'm amazed it is all happening so quickly. Just amazed. Saw it last Thursday, moving in this Friday (well, picking up the keys. And then buggering off out of town to drive to Exeter and fetch my things so that I can bring them back. It shoudn't be too bad as these things go. I don't have much stuff, and it is already conveniently packed. It just needs to be moved out of Tom's spare room, which is frankly a straight shot out the front door, into the van and driven on up to Henley.
Yes, Henley. Rowing central, really. Seems like a very nice place, and I'm sure I'll have a whole bunch of new best friends when people start realizing they have a friend two minutes from the finish line.
Particularly when they realize they can get out of London for the weekend. I went out on Saturday night with Dan to SoHo. Everyone was there - Kats was at one party, Jim was in another bar. But this is just it - every tourist in the land and everyone in London was there. It was heaving, it was loud, and it was being seen for the sake of being seen, which takes a bit of fun out of the company you've gone out to spend time with. Then of course, I had to take the chucking out time Tube home. I don't care what city you're in. This is never a good time to be on public transport. I was shoehorned into a Victoria line carriage. There were a group of American tourists celebrating the 20th birthday of one of their group in the loudly drunk manner that announced to everyone that they thought it was cool they could legally drink (which they couldn't do at home). They did this by proceeding to act in the manner that other Americans begin to apologize on behalf of their nation to eveyone around them. It was bad. But of course I didn't need/bother to apologize, I was focussed very clearly on trying hard to make sure that the girl vomiting next to me didn't get sick on my shoes. This was pretty hard. There wasn't a lot of space to move my feet, and she seemed ready to renounce her amateur status and turn professional. Add into the mix an Elvis impersonator ready to sing for money (and getting stiffed by the American birthday tourists. Get the cash up front next time, King.) and a very obnoxious guy who got on, grabbed on to the rail, nearly elbowed some girl in the face and then got right in the face of someone who asked him to move and I was ready to leave London for ever. I do love London - the city, the culture, the museums in particular, the river and the history, but it is very crowded and that last tube is like Mr Toad's Wild Ride.
NOt that Henley is perfect. I don't know how rowdy it is or isn't at night as I've not spent the night there yet. But my MP is none other than Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson, who is perpetually in the press for making a complete twit of himself, and a tale of whom was regaled to me by a co-worker.
"It takes a lot to get the NCT to boo you, particularly in Henley where they're a nice conservative polite lot. But they booed Boris quite heavily as he was drunk as a skunk, slurring his speech and awful to listen to." Well, there you go. It has been suggested I start looking for constituency problems just to be able to validly attend his surgery. Could be a laugh riot, I must say!
Packing packing packing.