Moving out

The past few weeks I've been in such a state. I finish my Au Pair job on the 17th of December, and with it goes not only my primary source of income, but also my home. And with the local and global economy rushing headlong into chaos, the job market isn't exactly thriving. So up until a few days ago my prospects were looking fairly dire.

Naturally I managed to get a job without too much hassle (it was always going to be one or the other). The company that hired me provides staffing for high profile, high end events. It's not exactly guaranteed full-time work - in fact they're advising already that January is a lean month - but it's a job nonetheless.

But if the job market is tough then the housing market is out and out war.

I must have looked at a dozen houses in the last fortnight. Of those, two were nice, and the rest had me genuinely worried that I might be sold into the white slave trade. I had always thought that shows like East Enders and The Bill portrayed only the scummiest aspects of London life. As it turns out, it doesn't matter how nice the surrounding areas are; if you live on an estate in London, the chances of you getting stabbed over £20 rise exponentially. I saw flats with no living area; a room with three doors and a curtain; and in the worst case was offered a place in a one bedroom flat sharing with an overweight middle aged man with a ponytail. I don't mean to be judgemental, but there are some things you should be obliged to mention on a room advertisement. And the going rate for a room is £150 a week.

I was beginning to think my top two options were death by exposure or being shanked on an under lit stairwell when I went to look at a room in Highgate, and found myself in flat search utopia. The woman I spoke to (also named Shannon) lives there with her adult daughter and one other lodger, a Spanish girl who's moving back home after Christmas. I was determined not to lodge with a family, but she made it clear I would be treated as a flatmate. Honestly though, even if she hadn't I probably would have offered her my firstborn for the lease. The flat is beautiful. It's in North London, flanked on two sides by Camden and Hampstead Heath (famously the home of Helena Bonham-Carter and Tim Burton amongst others). It has high ceilings and a private garden, and night buses to every corner of town. The next door neighbours are rich young bankers (single, too, according to my new landlord), and the area is practically overrun by people in the arts and media industries.

Afterwards I went home and decided that if I didn't get the lease on that flat I would give up and become a drifter, hitchhiking my way to the Med so I could sleep on the streets in relative winter warmth.

I picked up my set of keys today.

But wait, there's more. As if I needed any further incentive, I also found out the mother and daughter who own the flat are, from February next year, going to be spending much of there time in America. For weeks and months at a time they'll be gone, leaving me all on my own. Which means, to all intents and purposes, that for £400 a month (all inclusive) I just rented myself an entire house.

Laura In London

On Monday I received a phone call I had been waiting seven months for. Laura was in London.

Laura and I went to school together, but didn't really spend a lot of time hanging out until last year, when we discovered a mutual love of day drinking. And although inappropriate alcohol consumption seems a poor grounding for any kind of relationship I now consider Laura one of my closest friends, thanks primarily to the $3 drinks at Bar Century and an excess of free time. I mean, we do actually have a lot in common so that probably helped. But mostly it was the drinking.

So that's what we did.

It was incredible to see her again. She was staying in Camden, so on Wednesday I took half a day off work and went up there to meet her. Isabel came too, making Laura the one person to have infiltrated each and every one of my friendship groups. We spent the first part of the day trawling the markets, but once Isabel had to leave we got down to business.

I knew seeing Laura would be a slightly bittersweet occasion. She is basically the embodiment of everything I left behind, and seeing an old friend is so different from seeing the various family members who have come over while I've been here. Inevitably we talked about the various people we knew back home and reminisced about the past, but over the several hours we spent together we also spoke a lot about our future plans. And I have to admit it was reassuring. When Laura arrived I was super excited, but also slightly nervous. It's been so long since I've seen any of my Australian friends that I wasn't sure how things might have changed.

Once the pubs had closed and we'd run out of vodka I decided it was time to go home. And despite reassurances of her return in August ("there are heaps of times even at home when we wouldn't see each other for a month") leaving was difficult.

But not as difficult as I'd anticipated. Leaving Australia was the hardest thing I've ever done. I remember sitting on the plane, feeling totally along and realising that two and a half years is a really long time. I had no friends, no safety net and no way of knowing whether I was making a huge mistake, so I wanted to cling to everything I was leaving behind. Now all those concerns have become non-issues. London feels like home now too, and the friendships I've made here are no less valid just because they're newer. And, most importantly, I don't want to go home. Seeing Laura made me very happy, and August will be a blast, but it didn't make me miss home at all. If anything it made me feel more at home here. Besides, I'm only ever a (painfully long) plane ride away.

To market, to market

Over the last week I've happily started making actual real people friends - ie met and interacted with people while nobody was drunk. Yay! Life is beginning to seem legit! Also I finally got around to seeing Buckingham Palace, which was considerably more ugly and less impressive than I'd expected. I will have to go back and revistit all the touristy places I've been so far though, this time accompanied by my bright shiney new camera.
I was invited out on Saturday night by one of my new Australian friends (so far the people I've spent most time with outside the Family have been Aussies. Irony plus) on a pub crawl run by a group who also do tours across Britain and Europe. And I have to say, despite being tacky and formulaic, the night was both cheap and honestly really enjoyable. I spent five hours dancing with a group of German students and got a free drink at every bar. I'm not exactly complaining.
So far though far and away my favourite place has been Camden. HOMIGOD. Salivate. There are no words. But I will try.
Basically Camden is a big ass suburb situated right on a canal that is pretty much entirely devoted to markets.

Most people enter Camden via the train station, but I walked in along the water (through the zoo), and it was absolutely stunning, despite the poor quality weather.

At the start of the canal there's an area known locally as Little Venice because of the sheer number of house boats. As I walked past these boats I met one man who lived there, casually chopping wood for his on-board wood fire stove.

I braved the crowds and went out on a Sunday when everything was guaranteed to be open, but apparently the markets are for the most part open and operational seven days. From all accounts it also has quite the night life, but I'm yet to experience that. The best way I can describe it in Sydney terms is this: Imagine if Newtown and Paddy's Markets had a beautiful British baby, then increase the awesomeness exponentially and you'll have some idea of how goddam awesome Camden is.

Camden Lock is kind of the heart of the different markets that take place all across Camden.

I spent most of my day exploring the Stables, and I can honestly say I've never seen so much leather in one place before ever.

Unfinished graffitti under one of the innumerable bridges spanning the canal. I'll never know what the person was sorry for. Clearly one of the great mysteries of my life.
While I was at the markets I became the proud owner of (amongst other things) a skirt that looks like the product of an unholy union between a circus tent and a hawaiian shirt. It's the best skirt I've owned since I was about 3.