London Bridge is burning down

This post is a melange of an extract of a recent e mail as well as some extra bits and bobs...

“Hi friendies

I have been staying in a corporate apartment in Tower Hill, which is in the middle of the business district. The area is flanked by the notorious London Bridge and Tower Hill castle. The apartment is really modern and beautifully kitted out, not palatial but big enough to swing a cat. I feel like a spoilt brat, and that my deserved spot is on a couch somewhere in Wimbledon or the like.

Night view of Tower of London taken with my phone

Tower Hill is on the River Thames, and has afforded me the odd run along the water and over London Bridge which I have loved.  I can see the Tower of London from my apartment, which is spectacular at night. The Tower (which currently houses the Crown Jewels) is on the north bank of the Thames and was founded in 1066 when the Normans conquered England. William the Conqueror played a major role in its construction and contributed the White Tower as a symbol of oppression. The castle was used as a royal residence in the Tudor period, and later a prison in the 16^th and 17^th centuries. Many famous executions took place within its walls during that time, such as that of Anne Boleyn. Tower Hill also featured in the Great Fire of London in the 1600’s.

Borough market

Just a short walk from my apartment takes me over the Thames river across London Bridge to Borough market. Borough is a food market which can be scoured for any gourmet food, and organic fruit and vegetables. I found myself weaving my through its many lined stalls with one Sandra Field one Saturday morning.

Wishing I looked this fabulous...

I am trying to look for my own place, and have been traipsing the streets of London day in day out, night in night out, alone, hungry, besieged by the winter dust and hopeless. Just a joke... but I am feeling somewhat sorry for myself as you can see. I kit myself out in jacket, gloves and scarf, and thick boots for the journey. I have given up milk and sugar for lent, so I drink hot chocolate instead. Trying to look for a house in London is like going for an interview as the CEO for Standard Bank. I have had to fend questions such as “What do you consider to be your strengths and weaknesses?” and “Is there anything else we need to know about you?” Moreover, I have had to think quite seriously about the answers.

Street view of Angel

I really want to stay in a place called Angel, which is in North East London, and probably made the search more difficult because I’m being fussy. It’s a great mix between being trendy and a bit off the wall, and nice and comfortable to live. The upper high street is lined with gorgeous bars, cafes and boutique and vintage shops. Last Friday I went for dinner there on my own (alone not lonely!) while I waited to see a house. Bought the Vogue, sipped on a glass of wine, sat in a rustic cafe and devoured a salad. It was absolutely lovely.

I have seen some quaint and cute places (still waiting to hear on how those interviews went) but some equally horrendous, more disturbing places. We are truly spoilt for choice in South Africa. Yesterday, I found myself hacking through some old quiet street, lined with fried chicken take away’s, chavs with backward faced caps and young twenty something mums pushing prams beneath 10 storey brick building complexes. I nearly left, but I had walked all that way, I thought I had better see the place. I was let in by a middle 30 something man, hugely overweight, and transparently white. He introduced me to his Welsh flat mate (I was to be the third). He was sitting on the grubby sofa, eating something (probably fried chicken). I politely looked at the grotty bathroom we were to all share, and said I’d let them know. Then I went home and watched Gossip Girl.

During one of the less appealing house viewings I came across a French guy, who was viewing the house at the same time as I was. He looked like a cool dude, around my age, with coiffed hair, retro glasses and porting a beret. Drawing on South African courage and tenacity, I cornered him outside the apartment and said “Hey you look like a cool dude. Dig your glasses. Let's live together”. So, Adrien (whose family live in Paris and Marseille) and I are currently traipsing Angel together, looking for a promising pad.

Oh, and I entered the lottery for the London marathon on 2012. Yikes.

Miss you all.

Love Aims"

Put a sock in it

I saw it fit to place the following description and demonstration in my blog, as it perfectly highlights an example of my battle as a business bohemian.

My hair is long, and somewhat wavy. I love to leave it loose and flowing, but the 'bed head' head look sometimes just doesn't cut it in the corporate environment. I hate spending hours on my hair, and think time is precious in the mornings before school, work or play. Instead of labouring over a hot hair dryer, I most often used to opt for gel, clips, and the no mess no full tight bun look. The look did the job. It was squeaky clean, not a strand out of place. It was also very boring and plain.

I got bored with this look and started searching for some alternatives. I began with teasing the 'bun' to make it look bigger, only to find my hair starting to thin from all the teasing. On  my quest for the biggest, most glamorous bun, that took minutes to do, I came across a phenomena that would soon change my early morning, boring and stale ritual.

                                                       

                     Enter the sock bun.

My sock bun in @livloo's hair

Hair buns are a chic and easy way to style your hair. The are as gorgeous and classic today, as when they were socially acceptable only for matrons to wear. There is something about a well done and chic bun, that exudes class and sass. The first appearance of 'buns' was made in Greece, where they were woman by men and woman alike. They were typically used to exhibit fancy hair pins, which were a sign of ones wealth. Later in history, in the Victorian era, buns were used typically for older woman and were considered to be boring and plain. Nowadays, there is a plethora of bun variations which can be suitable for any occasion, regardless of whether you are corporate diva or hopeless hippie.

So the sock bun uses an old sock (or two if you would like it bigger). The result is a larger than life, full to the brim bun, that is neat and easy to execute.

Instructions:

• Find an old sock, similar to the colour of your hair
• Cut of the 'toes' so that the sock is open on either end
• Roll the sock up into a doughnut shape
• Brush your hair back into a tight pony tail, in line with where you want to bun to be positioned
• Place the end bit of your pony tail through the doughnut sock, so that about 3 cm of your hair sticks out
• Wrap the 3 cm of hair around the doughnut sock
• Continue to push the sock outwards, whilst folding your hair into the sock, until the sock is tightly secured at the base of your pony tail
• Secure the bun with pins 

My sock bun to the side in my own hair

My high sock bun in Jacqui H's hair

My side sock bun in Robs S's hair

Little girl in London

After much packing, and a flight where I managed to sort myself out with two adjacent chairs to sleep on - and realised that you really are never to old to curl up - I arrived in Heathrow, London England. As assured by the company who sent me over, I was warmly greeted by a Pakistani taxi driver, who had written my name - or so he thought - (Fane) and surname (Hervey) on a white placard. I felt out of place and slightly embarrassed, when after some brow furrowing from him, he whisked away the trolley to which I had been tightly clutching, laden with luggage, and proceeded to walk towards the biggest, blackest, longest BMW I have ever seen. I felt completely ridiculous as we approached the monstrosity, and had to launch myself somewhat with a run-up, to ensure I landed safely in the backseat. I dared not refuse the mineral water and newspaper presented to me in the lap of luxury, and just to check it was all real, I stretched out my legs to confirm they couldn't quite reach the seat in front. Dark eyes looked on curiously from the review mirror. "I'm from South Africa you know," I said. "They don't make them this big back home."

It rained the morning of my arrival, which somehow made me feel more comfortable and settled in that backseat. I attempted to read bits and bobs of BP'S intention to resume drilling in the Gulf, facebooks £85 billion valuation, the fall of copper and the rise in oil prices, but started to feel nauseous as the taxi lurched back and forth in peak hour traffic. The journey felt similar to the one's I had experienced in Indian tuk-tuk's, amidst the bedlam of the Indian traffic system (or lack thereof) than a London luxury cab. 

London is blossoming and Spring has certainly sprung. There are hundreds of gorgeous cherry blossom trees, scattered in and around projecting bay window apartments. So many of the solitary apartments used to be one of several rooms in large mansions with Lady's, Lords and servants and I love to daydream about the lives they may have lived. An old drawing room that may have been reserved for high tea, is now likely to be a double bedroom, with a bathroom and kitchenette intact, inhabited by at least 3 people.


Blue plaques with distinguished names line some of the streets, which commemorate famous figures who previously occupied the building by living or working there. I find it a fascinating trail of history, that links past with present. To be eligible for a plaque in your name, you would need to have been dead for twenty years (and therefore unlikely to be reading this), as well as recognised by other prominent figures of society, specific to the area of the nominees expertise, and obviously to have made a significant impact to "human welfare or happiness." An nominee may also not have more that two of the said plaques worldwide. Some of the well known London plaque names include Oscar Wilde (Kensignton), Virginia Wolfe (Preston square), Vincent Van Gogh (Lambeth) and John Lennon (Liverpool).

After an hour we arrived in Tower Hill, my new home for the next 3 weeks.