post from the past

Wrote this like a month ago. More than that, maybe seven weeks ago, while using the internet in the Old Dispensary, a pub beneath(ish) my flat.

Hello,

Don't think I've written anything here for more than a year, yikes!

What prompts today’s post? Well, last week, one of my buddies from work, San, was screwin around on his computer like he usually does, and I came over to ask him an entirely business-related question, only to find him reading my blog. At first I was like, "San, I always knew you admired me, but this is borderline stalking dude." But then I relented when I glanced a tiny little teardrop running down his face. San, if you’re reading this, I’m glad I touched your heart again.

I recently moved flats. “What’s a flat?” you’re probably asking yourself if you’re from North America. No, it’s not a vast plot of land with zero change in elevation. No it’s not a member of the pile of 80 shoes you find in your sister’s closet. Instead, it’s an apartment – a launchpad from which young twenty-somethings foray into the swirling waters of city life.

The new place is in this part of town called Camberwell. Camberwell is south of the Thames (the main river running through London), and is a stark contrast to Canary Wharf, where I work. I love it. Top 5 Contrasts:

Canary Wharf = suits. About 4000 suits/day. Go ahead, extrapolate and cast judgment.

Camberwell = Pagne (African dresses), hipster scarfs, art-kids glasses and baby strollers. Again, extrapolate and cast judgment.

Canary Wharf = Towering glass skyscrapers, with a big subterranean shopping mall running underneath it all.

Camberwell = “high street” with several nearby Universities (aka Uni’s). What’s a high street? It’s a UK phenomenon - something like a “main street” but you have one for every part of town. There are probably 500 of them in London and they all have general stores, probably a kebab shop or two, and then various other establishments depending upon which part of town it is. Ours has four or five pubs, ten clothing retailers ranging from discount stores to trendier national chains, three launderers, a library, a big supermarket called Morrisons, a crapload of international calling-card booths (a sure sign you have a lot of expats living nearby), and a few meat dudes selling “fresh” fish, beef and other weird African meats that would take a brave Westerner to try.

Canary Wharf = banker bars. One national chain, called All Bar One, has about as much personality as a plank of driftwood. Actually driftwood has more personality, because it at least has a story behind it. The place we often go to is called the Cat and the Canary. It’s alright, still suffers from

Short interruption – I just had to google something very important: “Why do old people smell?” What prompted this slightly rude question? An equally rude observation, I’m afraid. I’m sitting in this pub called the Old Dispensary, and there’s this guy called Tony who comes here every Sunday afternoon. I know this because I come here most Sunday afternoons (to use the internet, new flat doesn’t have it still), and Tony is always here. Problem is, Tony is a smelly old man, so every time he comes back to sit in the chair next to me, wowzahs do I know it! That being said, Tony is something of a pub mascot – he seems to know everyone and will always pop right off of his chair and run over to shake your hand as soon as you walk through the door. The first time I came here to use the internet, I sat in this old leather green chair in the corner, because there’s an outlet right next to it for me to plug in my lappy. About 45 mins later, Tony (whom I don’t yet know) walks through the door, and promptly (but nicely) informs me that I’m sitting in his chair. He always sits in this chair, Tony explains, so not one to rock the boat, I

Oh geez, Tony might have just read this, dangit hahaha. I can’t tell if he did or not – am hoping his eyesight isn’t strong enough, but he was defs reading my computer screen just now.

That concludes today’s post, I’m an awful human being!