THE WONDER YEARS ARE OVER.
......FOR NOW.
It's been a wild 2 years. Its been expensive.
I've come a long way since that very first day getting called a "convict" by a deranged wacko inside the Mare Street Post Office.
Housey - wise, I was a picky little thing. I seemed to love packin' my bags and moving on every few months, sometimes even days in that first year. This Goldilocks behaviour went to my head, and in the summer of 2011 (house number #4) I dyed and emerged blonde.
When I moved to London in the winter of 2010 I didn’t have any friends.
I knew that under most circumstances living with a drug dealer is probably a stupid idea. When I say drug dealer I mean the single most unqualified, inconceivably incompetent person on the face of Earth. So instead, I decided to make the novice mistake of moving in with a random stranger I met on Gumtree. As long as its not a drug dealer as long as its not a drug dealer as long as its not a drug dealer...How bad could it be?
BAD.
Her name was Holly and she didn't exactly deal drugs, but she took them and and as a result she was constantly on the brink of a complete freakout brain-explosion. If drug eaters were types of facial hair, Holly would be a goatee. If they were crimes against humanity, she would be Zorro's doom. It was that bad - no sympathy required.
Moving on and away from the incessant flicker of the criminally insane (the universe does provide), 7 houses and 14 months later I finally made peace with my situation - and my hair colour.
In the vicinity formally known as Murder Mile lay the long and winding Clarence Road, and my new home.
Never short of riot rage or questionable CCTV, Clarence featured bombs, helicopters, scared cops, no cops, fires, yeti sightings, funeral marches?!?, money laundering, shootings, private clubs and other forms of Xratedtainment. When my soul wasn't leaving my body, Clarence and I got along really well. I learnt a fuckload about Jamacian lifestyle, Jamacian values, their childish enjoyment of crude sexual swearwords and brilliant gags that masqueraded the so-called 'Clarence satire'. They are inquisitive little buggers. "Why don't you have any clothes on? Do you "do it" for Jesus? Do you use your mascara to pick padlocks? Who saves your butt? Is your vagina jewish? Why aren't you wearing shoes? Do you wear underwear? Do you like giving hand jobs? How come your so tall, boyfriend? (a popular one), What planet did Australia come from before it came to Hackney?" General stuff like that that made me feel good, in a neighbourly kinda way.
Mare St. You Hoax, You Holy ol' thing. We have been apart for exactly one week and I do not miss you at all. You are a weird science of PFCness I could never quite find the soundtrack too, but i guess if i had to pick one song it would be She Bop. Narrow Way may as well have been a free STD lovin' masturbation clinic as far as my sweet elbows were concerned. Prams, crack heads/mutants, buses, rats, McFlyer strangers, space sausages, professional zombies, other shameful, self-loating financial slaves and dead birds (that I swear were still alive) rubbed against me like a used vibrator. Gross. I guess all those STD's floating around did make me feel like I was living on the edge, dodging the face of danger...
Don't get me wrong, I think you'd all be great in a TESCO video game. Dodge YOUSE and you get a bonus. Keep them elbows clean and get you win a voucher. Earn points for knowing if its off or just "organic" and upgrade to a TESCO in Notting Hill, where you can rub elbows with the rich and make a real pound or two.
And P.S Ridley Road, your chavvy £1 baseball tops may transcend my eternal lifetime day-to-day hots but your other chavvy ways absolutely repulse me. Plus, I know about the rats instead of meat trick because, get this, I actually watch the news.
R.I.P my Hackney days, my fondest bedtime story....
I don't know how I will live without you.
Sincerely,
Rosie K.
But I guess what my point is (if I'm even making one), is I've had so much fun in this grimy thrilling be all big city, and now its time I dedicated some serious blog devotion to my London Family.
Apart from writing this blog, Spiderchavving and gettin' Kmossed like a full force trashbag, I worked for Jordan Askill. Yes, I actually had a job (at one point I even had 2!) although the way i used to sneak it in and around my party lifestyle even i find unbelievable. THANKYOU Jordy, for giving me a job, taking me to Paris Pashion Week, and teaching me that everything is possible. We will always have Paris X.
As for YOU, LONDON FASHION WEEK, there's a million pictures of me looking super try hard, and i cherish them all.
Miss Nadine! We drank for free, promoting ourselves and entertaining others. I will never forget the night we owned Claridges like VIP fashion thugs. Too good. You are my mischeif machine, my voodoo crime doll and no, for the last time, you ARE NOT FAT. YOU ARE FAMOUS.
Oh!Jack France for being one of the first people I met here, masked exterior and all, and making me feel like London was my home, ie. teaching me how to be famous and #use a knife and fork. You are my pamphlet of Supermodel vaj and I love you.
Britta, for being my big sister, my friend, my confidant and gatekeeper to Goldilocks's favourite pad.
Oh, and of course the time you fed me absinthe (basically the same as blind-folding) and convinced me i should get a tattoo, and of course D.I.Y in your kitchen. We used a sewing needle and Biro inc for the procedure and when it came to the hard decision between the symbol of Christ and the symbol of Chanel, we chose Christ. A choice that definitely pissed my mum off. Thank-god you redeemed youself by lending me 800 pounds when I missed my flight across the world so could make it home for Xmas.
Anita King...And so the sun does shine. On all projects pleasures, eternal hots and JESUS FUCKING CHRIST IT'S PASHION WEEK; in particular SS12 where we went to Paris and Kmossed with the RICH and FAMOUS.
Danutz, what can I say?? You are a Chefudgit and the secret to my happiness.
To all the Danutz's, Ben's, Adam's, Louie's, Marta's, Emmet's, Hildy's, Moonages, Leesa's, Fintan's, Steph's, Lena's, Diana's, Claudia's, Zoe's, Paul's, Katie's, Sanjay's, Judes, ChiChi's, Thea's, Julia's Daniels -your a certifiable bunch, for your careless appetite, your horror bites. Never once did I meet normality, sensibilty or anything else #unlikeable, and i love you all for it.
To my housemates Paul, Jess and Marty for being my family. Thanks guys. For witnessing the many times I've screamed and cried and came and puked, for pulling my hair out of the drain, for understanding my need to paint the bathroom glow in the dark, for my continuing sex tales, for my friendly bitchy reminders, my personal "missions", my stolen parmesan promises, my sneaky sunflower seeds, all the candle wax, cigarette butts, cigarette everythings; for basically tolerating everything that a human being can possibly do wrong - including moving in without much permission at all like the little Clapton Slut I was. I lourvvvve you guys, you're my family 4 eva. Smoochie smooch.
And last but not least, Holly-Anne Buck, the mere- coincidence, the woman with the double name, my fellow hack-vanity project, my SpiderChav, and my CHANEL of 2012 AD.
X
X
But my extra special thanks goes to Marty Schoo.
You are my best friend, my roving beauty spot, my butt saver, my expensive handbag, my hot date, my pain "feeler", wine stealer, writing weird fan fiction human pyramids and something turban dealer. We’ve had LOADS of fun staring prettily at our respective laptop screens in close proximity, havent we? HOW BO-HO of us, and WAY sexier than watching football! Marty, You run in my blood. I love you, and there's no way I could have done it without you.xx
Im back in OZ to be a progressive power whore. Being Australian is so hot right now. Seriously! Everybody's doing it, the flies are getting more sex than I am, only God can afford booze, and the trees are purple.
Seriously, come hang out!
LATERZ!
LOVE + CHEFUDGE TO YOU ALL!
I promise to flirt with you all on twitter/facebook/whatever.
X
