I was a busy little blogger yesterday- it’s my first London weekend that didn’t involve moving house again, so I took full advantage of not having to spend a Saturday packing, and spent it walking instead.
Mostly this just involved getting lost, but I managed to take my mini walking adventure via West End Live (which was okay, just a shame about the techie issues), round the tourist-rammed Portobello Road market, down Notting Hill and back home to Shepherd’s Bush. Completely pooped, I was ready to get into bed come 4pm.
But I live in London now. And I think it’s technically a legal requirement for 20-somethings in a capital city at a loose end on a Saturday night to find something to do. And who am I to disrespect the law?
So, when my wonderful housemate Georgie invited me to a party in Shoreditch, to a swanky little basement bar called nineteen-twenty, I couldn’t possibly say no. I spent the night talking buzz-words, north-south divides and The Shard. The wine was flowing and there were free cupcakes, and what more can a girl honestly want from a party?
I was starting to feel more like a real Londoner. Stopping for a hotdog in Notting Hill, heading off to jaunts in Shoreditch, planning charity shop hauls in Clapham. Then I found myself having to explain, mortally offended, that Manchester is NOT in fact “in Yorkshire“. I was horrified.
This innocent (and wildly misinformed) mis-placing of my hometown was crazy. Being a Manchester girl living in Yorkshire used to be a big deal- i.e. I was mercilessly teased for my pronunciation of “beer”, and asked to provide a passport every time I crossed the Pennines by my charming and ever-loving friends. But I guess in a city where the War of the Roses is skimmed over in history lessons, none of that matters now.
I’m just Farrah From The North, and I can spare people the potted life history now- which is going to save a lot of time.