Like A Rolling Stone

Sorting my clothes into my 'coming with me' bag and my 'going into a friend's loft' bags, I get a certain sense of déjà vu. It feels like I was doing this very recently.. then I look around my room and realize I was only doing this recently. I've lived in this room for barely three months and back everything goes into boxes and bags.. at this rate I honestly wonder why I unpack anything ever.

Not that I'm unhappy, on the contrary, this is the most excited I've been whilst packing up all this stuff.. but for a moment the future is on hold and the present demands procrastination. So the past draws my thoughts back to June of last year.

At that time I was just throwing everything into bags, moving in with Charlotte for a few weeks while I prepared to move properly all the way here to London town. It was a busy time. Moving it all to hers was the easy bit. Then I had to sort some of it into storage, sort what I could into transportable bags, and leave some tokens behind with her. It was emotional. It was difficult. Not just for the two of us, but for me and the whole city. I was leaving behind my four years of independence, my university, my job, my house, my friends, even my bear. (For those who were not aware, I have a teddy called Snail, who had been with me since I was 8 years old, and currently sleeps next to Charlotte, watching over her for me. He's the only one I would trust to do so.)

Above all the job was the hardest to leave. Don't misunderstand me, leaving Charlotte was hellish but I knew we would see each other regularly, and we do. Leaving a job I'd held for over two years, though, leaving that warm, safe environment, that was worse than leaving home. That's me leaving behind financial stability and security, opportunities in Theatre I'd only dreamed of having before, and people who truly cared for and supported each other. The leaving party they threw for me was one of the best nights I've ever had.

But everything changes. And if you've heard my life story, you'll understand that staying still isn't something I'm very good at. So here I am, a year and a bit later, packing my things to leave London (for a while, anyway), and again it's the job that's going to be hardest to say goodbye to.

Granted I'm coming back to work over my Christmas break, and yes I'll be there again for the long term in February, but still. I'll miss 'em. And I've been assured that I'll be missed too. And that's nice, I suppose, because if people don't miss you while you're gone, then you probably didn't do much good whilst you were there.

There's some food for thought, minions. Eat up.

Le Grand Escape

Chapter 1

In which Adam attempts to leave the country,

tries his hand at vlogging,

and speaks some French.

Yes, minions, this is my first (and likely only) foray into the mystical world of video-blogs. So grab a snack, crack open that beer you've been looking for an excuse to drink, stick on your headphones, and enjoy yourself.

The Icy Grip Of Charity Fads

On Sunday the 24th of August, I was nominated by Richard Bayton for the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge.

On Monday the 25th of August, I was nominated again by Marianne Roman.

On Tuesday 26th of August, at approximately 11:40am, I subjected my body to previously unfath levels of incredible discomfort as 20+ litres of iced water was poured, dropped and thrown over me. Here's that video one more time.

Did you enjoy that? I didn't. At all. Honestly it was a horrible experience. But I've managed to raise a fair bit of money for my chosen charities, and I have a few theories as to why this particular challenge works incredibly well:

Schadenfreude

Humans love laughing at one another's misfortune, and what could be more unfortunate than being drowned in water which typically reaches temperatures more than 30℃ below the human body's core temperature? Schadenfreude, like any feel-good, laughter-inducing activity, releases dopamine into the brain, making the viewer feel better overall. In this state of elation they are more likely to be generous.

Respect

This ties in strongly with the above, but there is a difference between laughing at someone falling off a horse, and watching someone being persecuted for their beliefs. Rather a stark contrast, I know, but think of it this way: these are not random events, people (such as myself) are consciously choosing to put themselves through extreme physical discomfort and even pain in order to raise awareness of this disease and the surrounding campaign. That kind of strength of belief demands respect, and as we can see easily by looking at political systems worldwide, people are likely to support someone they respect. This means people will continue to accept the challenge.

I was going to add a third point in here, but after consideration it seemed to similar to the previous two. Also Blogger keeps refusing to save my edits and I'm getting fed up of re-writing psychosomatic theories.

Minions, if you haven't yet researched ALS (MND), then do so. It is one of millions of worthy causes out there, but most importantly it is the one cause which is currently making a serious effort to raise global awareness. Give generously, and look out for a future video related to this post.

I Called The Law But The.. Law Did Nothing.

So last night I arrived at my flats after a particularly gruelling and dull shift and noticed something a mite peculiar:

Two figures were hunched over a scooter which is always chained up in the car park. The first thing that struck me as odd was that I'd only ever seen a woman use the scooter. I had to quite literally walk directly up to them as the scooter is parked next to the entry gate. I actually had to ask one of them if I could get passed - he looked like I'd just pulled a gun on him. This probably should have been my second warning signal, but I was tired and the music from a party across the road was booming - I was imagining how long it might keep me awake for.

As I ascended the steps I thought again about the two youths bent over the scooter and my brain registered a small warning light which had begun to blink in my subconscious. I decided to try and capture whatever was happening on camera in case this was, indeed, something illegal and I would need to present evidence to a jury (my imagination runs far quicker than my actual brain..), but as I was trying to find the zoom function on my camera (still struggling with that one) they both bolted. This all seemed very odd so I called 101 (this is the police non-emergency number in case anyone is unaware. It comes with a handy greeting explaining that if the call is about an emergency, that the caller should hang up and dial 999. You know, to stop all of those mugging victims and heart attacks from clogging up the line dedicated to ASBOs and missing cats.)

The operator took the details and asked for the registration of the vehicle in question, which gave me a chance to examine the bike further. It turns out the would-be master criminals had stolen the battery, which I informed the coppers of, and I was told that an officer would follow up on the report within the next 60 minutes.

I hadn't heard anything (apart from the relentless partying from across the road) after an hour and a half so I called to make a noise complaint and check on the status of the report. I was informed that a) they couldn't do anything about the noise as this was the council's duty and then b) an officer had inspected the vehicle and found no problems. I was amazed. Had the burglars been suddenly struck by crippling guilt and compassion? Had they merely replaced the panel to cover their tracks? I didn't know. I was tired and there was loud music playing and them damned kids were out on the street and I felt about 50.

However opportunity, as is her way, knocks at the most convenient and odd times. And often in really awkward ways. This was one of her crowning moments. She let two wasps into my room whilst I was on the phone. That bitch. I hate wasps. But how to get rid of them? Far to agile for the ok' glass and paper trick, much to painful to smack between the palms.. what's that? In the kitchen you say? Raid, eh? That'll do it! And it did, although the raid seemed about as old as I felt so the 'kills in seconds' promise was rather hopeful. What actually happened was the damned thing flew around my room in a frenzy then dive bombed my bed. And then managed to roll onto the floor. And under my discarded trousers. Although at this point it didn't matter as the ol' cup n' paper trick worked just fine.

I decided to eject the offending, slowly dying insects out of the front door for fear of inviting their friends in should I open the window. This then gave me a completely valid excuse to descend the three flights of stairs and walk across the car park to examine the apparently fine scooter. Which was as I'd last seen it: battery missing, gaping hole in the footboard. The Met Police really shining there. So I did the sensible thing, and the only appropriate thing to do at 4am. I left a note. It went along the lines of this...

Hi, my name's Adam and I didn't do this. But I did see it happen and reported it to the police. Here's the call reference and my number in case I can be of any more use. Sorry about all this.

Apparently this was well-received, as I spoke to her this evening as she wanted to thank me for leaving the note, apparently not many people would have done this. We also discussed how desperate someone must be to steal a moped battery, an item which sells brand new for under £30. London, eh?

Let this be a lesson, minions: always leave a note when you witness a crime. A small act can make a big difference.

July's Special: Rainbows!

I feel as it approaches the end of July I should keep up to date with my monthly blog posting. And in all honesty, plenty has happened since my last post.

I had a birthday, which was delightful. I celebrated over the course of about a week, starting with a weekend away with Charlotte at a spa somewhere near a power station in the Midlands.. that's all I remember really, but the stay was excellent. Food included, spa facilities included, and I even treated myself to a massage (t'was my birthday after all). The day before my birthday I had dinner with Richard and James at Camden's Blues Bar (excellent food, I highly recommend the beef ribs). On the day itself I celebrated by hosting a charity pub quiz at work, which was met with great enthusiasm and general good feelings. I also saw Sarah as she joined me for a drink after the quiztivities. I'm sure I did some other things but this was a month ago so forgive my memory.

No sooner had that passed then it became July and as if by magic (or careful planning on my part) my mother and Charlotte arrived in London for a week of tourism and relaxation. Both of the aforementioned happened in abundance, with a sprinkling of stress in the form of a very important envelope I recovered from my previous accommodation. Said envelope contained some important documents with the instructions to fill in, sign, and return by special delivery to 've receive d no more than 5 days after the initial postmark. I was already 3 days late. Frantically I scribbled with one hand whilst searching for a nearby post office with the other. I made it just as the counter staff were discussing closing (they even turned away people who joined the queue after me) and all was well with the world.

One of the highlights of having a parent visit you in your home city is the ability to go out on the town. In our case, a West End show. This time, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels at The Savoy ("The Savoy!" Mother exclaimed, "we're seeing a musical at The Savoy Theatre! How wonderful!"). The show was excellent, a true call back to music hall classics of a bygone era, featuring some excellent acting and singing by an all-star cast. I would highly recommend it if you can get discounted tickets (ours were down from £115 to £40 each. Well, it is The Savoy!)

After that July has sort of just trundled along. Oh, other than the obvious joy of going to York for Sam's surprise party, an excellent affair arranged by very clever Holly saw us hiding in closets and airing cupboards awaiting a very confused Sam, wondering aloud why his living room had been cleaned and decorated. We spent most of the weekend playing Mario Kart on Sam's new WiiU. By the end of it I was actually doing quite well! Except on Rainbow Road..

Everybody hates Rainbow Road...

So A Cyclist Outed Me As Gay

I know you're all looking forward to your monthly dose of satiric journalism surrounding life in London, and don't worry that will come, (I locked my keys and my phone inside the flat today. What a story!) But right now something that happened on my way home is playing on my mind, and I honestly can't get my head around it.

Let's start at the bus stop. I, after closing the pub and having a now customary drink and general life chat with the manager, was waiting for the night bus (late) when a couple of young girls walked up and sat down next to me, shivering violently. They dispaired at the display stating that the next bus would be almost half an hour's wait, so I assured them that the display lies, and pointed out that the bus was parked in the terminal across the road. They explained that they had gotten on the bus not knowing where to get off and had ridden it to the end of the line, and were now essentially retracing their journey in the hope of eventually getting home.

Long story short, they needed to get off at my stop and walk in a slightly different direction. After a nice bus-chat and after they thanked me for my kindness and help (I was branded the nicest person in London, I pointed out that this was due to my not being from London) I pointed them in the right direction and headed off on my own path. No sooner had I taken two steps then a cyclist who had been approaching us from behind yelled out,

"What kind of man lets two girls walk home by themselves at this time of night?" A fair point, I suppose, but he immediately followed with, "He must be gay."

Now I stayed silent here, as any immediate response my brain may have formulated would probably have been either juvenile or offensive. Or both. But after the fee seconds of no, you're gay ran through my head, the next thought I had was, was that an insult? To me? Seems more insulting to the gay community. Did this cyclist just attempt to argue that gay men are less chivalrous than their straight counterparts? How does that work? If I preferred cock, would I feel less obliged to be a gentleman? Certainly in my experience homosexuals are far more likely to walk a woman home. After all, what's less creepy: random stranger you met on a bus walks you to your front door and now knows were you live, or man who has no interest in your genitalia walks you home?

Which leads to an even more disturbing thought, was the cyclist trying to pin me as some sort of sexual deviant? Obviously if a man walks a girl home he must be straight, and also must be interested in engaging in sexual congress with one or both of his unsuspecting female companions. As such, being the raging homosexual that he has judged me to be, I would have no reason to walk the young ladies home.

Surely I am not in the wrong here? I got the girls onto the correct bus, got them off at the stop closest to their house, and by my estimations they will have had to walk for a maximum of 9 minutes through the notably assault-prone area of Honor Oak Park. Honestly they would have been more at risk walking through Balamory..

Perks Of Being A Tourist

I don't get much opportunity to do 'touristy' stuff; the stereotypical sights and spots which attract thousands of foreigners every day, none more so than those in the Capital itself. And so, ten months into my life in London, an opportunity arose which I could not pass up: show an old friend from America (high school) around London during her first two days in the fair isles. My thoughts during the whole experience were, "Why have I never done this before?"

We started at Paddington station. Some time later we managed to arrive within the same part of Paddington station, and headed to a convenient coffee shop which rhymes with Bartucks to prepare for the day ahead. After a stroll through Hyde Park (Why had I never done that before?) we took a train to King's Cross to gaze at the lack of platform 9 3/4, visit the Harry Potter shop and see a man who may have had the best job ever - he was a rail-based pest controller. And he was carrying a large falcon. No word of a lie, this man was casually strolling around one of England's most famous stations with an impressive bird of prey perched on his gloved arm. This day was going to be great.

After King's X, it was a bus to Southbank, to take in the river and the bank's world-class entertainment and attractions! Except lets face it, the Thames isn't hard to take in and the entertainment was disappointingly sparse on Monday afternoon. Still, got some bloody good ice-cream (the first of many) and had a nice stroll.

From there we visited Trafalgar Square (again, I'd not had chance to go since my move, and we chose a beautiful day to visit) to sunbathe with the lions under the watchful gaze of Admiral Nelson.

The final stop of the day took us to London Bridge for a pint on the riverfront at a great riverside pub in the Hays Galleria. Which was a Nicholson's pub, which granted me my new employee discount, but more about that later. The drinks were perfect and food we ended up having was delicious.

And then we had an indor BBQ (George Forman's Lean Mean Grilling Machine) at Richard's along with drinks for dinner.

Day two started with another meeting at Tarmucks - this time we were actually able to find one another far more easily - and then we were off to visit the Queen! The Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace is a wonderful tourist and British attraction. Featuring such exciting sights as: Police Officers on horseback, footsoldiers in red coats (The Red Coats are coming! The Red Coats are coming!) and bearskin caps, some of whom were also ahorse. And the marching band, easily stealing the show playing such classics as The Theme from Indiana Jones, The Imperial March and My Heart Will Go On. Brilliant stuff.

Day duo continued to improve as The American was introduced to the wonderful concept of a Cheesemonger. The concept that a shop could specialize in selling little other than numerous varieties of cheese caused a minor excitement aneurysm, but she quickly recovered and was nibbling happily on the samples available for tasting. I bought a very expensive pork pie, another new experience (and another very good one, though she wasn't too keen on the sweet chili scotch egg) which we shared for lunch on a little city centre greenspace we stumbled across en route to Leicester Square. On final arrival to the cinema-swamped stomping ground of the world's biggest film releases, we decided to have a drink (well, I had a drink), wonder Chinatown, buy tickets to a comedy show, and make our way to a far more obscure attraction: Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.

The full run of events that took place in our short time in this particular pub (enough for us to finish one drink) would occupy an entire blog post to themselves, and by this point I imagine you're tired, so I'll condence the entire experience into the funniest moments: Thames Water pub crawl, 'you're rather attractive', and dogging. I'll let your imaginations run riot there.

We met Richard again for dinner before all heading to the highly anticipated Mostly Comedy at the Leicester Square Theatre. The show featured two warm-up Fringe acts and we were three of an audience of 12. It was absolutely wonderful. The first act, comic duo Doggett & Ephgrave, based their entire show on a slide show. A risky maneuver for a comedy show as there can be no room for error or improvisation, and at times the room was quiet but they got plenty of laughs. The second act was the acclaimmed stand-up and Metro columnist Richard Herring, who's writing I have long admired and who had a cameo role in Rock Band VS Vampires (sadly I wasn't on set that particular day, so missed the opportunity to strike up a conversational friendship with this semi-famous personal favourite of mine, setting up a flaky pretence to saying hello after the show, portraying a vague air of fame and fortune to my friends. Friends who know me well enough to realise that said air is, in fact, complete rubbish). By this point I had consumed a lot of alcohol (5 pints) so going for another drink afterwards seemed like the most sensible idea. And then, Soho! Which turned out to be perfectly barren on a Tuesday night in early June.

However, through the haze of smog and beer goggles, I spied a neon sign down a little alley. It said simply "The Bar". This had to be good. And as we drew closer the blackboard outside declared 'DJs dedicated to 60s and 70s soul.' It was tiny, it was underground, it serverd alcohol and the DJ was genuinely playing vynals on two decks. I let the soul train take me all the way home.

Actually it was the N343 but that doesn't sound nearly as fun.