I went to a fireworks party on Thursday in Finsbury. That was the good part, the wine and the sparklers and the fifteen girls screaming in unison as the boys lit roman candles under a big tree.
Then I stood at a bus stop for forty minutes, watching four buses sail past, the smell of dope from the man smoking a spliff ten feet from me turning my stomach, a memory of a bad night two years ago.
I made a telephone call and bitched about it.
"If bloody Boris had a daughter [just wikipedia'd that and, er, he has two] do you think he'd be okay with her standing on her own in North London for nearly an hour?"
Hadn't heard about him chasing off the Oiks in Camden at that point.
Eventually a friend turned up and we got lost together while he berated me about wandering around on my own at night.
I am rubbish at living in London. There is so much to do but I have no money to do it. When I do have money to do it, I will no longer have any time, apparently.
I have a horrible cold and this is a horrible city.
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