Just when you think you’ve sorted everything out, that you can finally relax a little, maybe even have a little quick glance at those laurels you are so anxious to rest on, that all systems are go…
You hit a snag.
A hitch.
A spot of bother, as they would say over here.
It seems that there’s no relief, and stability is scarce… Life in London seems to be that way - some things come easy, other things you’ll fight for and you still won’t get there. The latter is your case, the former everyone else’s. Any little thing has a ripple effect and rattles your cage.
And in the meantime I’m trying to find my own feet with views to the future - I have been applying to gallery jobs and internships - I find the idea of learning about curating and dealing with other artists and other people’s work appealing.
I’ve also been looking at assistanting stylists, or buying vintage for shops. CVs are not my biggest strength, but I’m drumming away at one since I’m very keen to get out of retail, away from the shopfloor, away from tills and rules
and tidying
and folding
and hanging
incessantly, indefinitely, mechanically…
This post is to say I’m still alive, and stressed. The vicar didn’t kill me. Nor will London.
I got hit and thrown off my bike today, right in front of my house, shooting forwards and sliding on the asphalt on my side, and got a gash on my head, grazed my elbow and hand. I couldn’t move and I screamed for help in the rain until I was surrounded by random people who put my skirt back into a decent position and a doctor who happened to be walking by. I screamed ‘Where’s my bag, I need to call the estate agent to tell him I can’t make it’ which was my primary concern at the time, stringing words together through the headache and nausea, staring up at a very beautifully rugged man’s blue eyes who donated his t-shirt to put under my head which was bleeding quite profusely while we waited for the ambulance. He said I could keep it. And I suppose it’s fair, both the shirt and my hair were caked in blood. It’s still somewhat residue-y and stinky, I can’t really touch the wound or wash it. Just as well, I can’t wash it anyway ’cause my arm’s in a sling.
Thankfully a good friend of mine decided to keep me humorous company at the hospital until I was discharged hours later and bought me a Diet Coke.
It hurts. Boo.
And yes, it was a vicar with on a moped on his way to meet the archbishop of Canterbury.
I find this story hilarious.
Ps. I’m going to buy the most stupidly expensive helmet because I am never riding again without one.
Don’t you love the smell of a brand new blog?
I’d like to use this space to show whatever sketchbook work I do/creative happenings/things I find. Because I like you.
In the hopes of not neglecting this one in the near and not so near future, I will sum up the time I’ve spent away from it. I have graduated from my master’s degree, I am now an illustrator fearing the big bad world out there because I know there are gaping jaws with lots of rows of bloodstained teeth round the corner, I am looking at my last days as an employee for Dov Charney’s wonder not-only-t-shirt-but-now-a-lot-of-other-shiny-sparkly-very-much-revealing-things emporium with the possibility of a return when the going gets tough at drawing pictures, I am picking up my good friend the L-CA and going on holidays very soon and I’m busy calling estate agents and viewing houses and falling in love with every piece of wooden flooring I see, daydreaming about walking barefoot on them on a lazy morning with sun streaming through the window, like a quintessential yoghurt or cereal commercial, where the cleanest and shiniest spoon held above the said product would not go amiss.
There’ve been ups and downs, rounds and rounds, inebriation and soberness, y’know, life and that.
The coursemates and I are taking it easy now after our stressfest - we went to Brighton and it was amazing. The Lanes were particularly nice, in which 60% of the stores were cafes, 30% were pubs, and 10% were little weird boutiques with collections of antiques, retro stuff, and clothes. Also I discovered I’m the sort of person that will ask for poached fish instead of fried for fish and chips. And get it.
‘So you ask for poached fish but still have chips?’ the guy said.
‘That’s the point.’
We did Brighton, and Brighton liked it.
All tuckered out, the little angels.
