IT'S OUT OF CONTROL

Even with the best will in the world sometimes you just wont make it. If you ask me, its a myth that timekeeping is unstylish. But while being fashionable late is one thing, being supremely delayed is tardy, chaotic and ill mannered. In my books? Only fashion shows and marriage proposals can be truly delayed and even they must have a cut off point. For fashion shows its 3-4 hours, for marriage proposals, if its nine months and theres no action, its time to move on. This is my guide to help gauge the appropriate level of apology:
0-20 mins no excuse necessary. You have arrived so whats the problem?
20-45 mins disarm irritated faces with compliments followed by casual apologies blaming external factors. Opening gambit usually runs along the following lines: “oh how lovely to see you all again. You look so well. Nightmare getting a taxi/ traffic/ parking isn’t it?
45mins-1hr vaguely suggest a day of exciting trauma being careful not to elaborate, settle in quickly and become absorbed in the current conversation.
1 hour plus. This requires a show stopping entrance but its no bad thing as it will remind everyone that you are a special creature and can’t be expected to keep to standard timings.

It started one day several weeks ago, when I realised that at some point while I was wrestling with London, my life was about to take a new stumbling step. After months of knowing intellectually that their time was over, I finally felt it to be true.

I’ve had to wave goodbye to two of my best friends. Man it was hard, I can’t begin to tell you how hard it was. It was an awful process; I helped them squeeze their lives into suitcases, cried with them all the way to Heathrow, but by the time I got home I felt fine. It wasn’t the shock I expected. It was quieter, and it took me a while to realise, like I realise now, that my heart is still aching.

It wasn’t the only stumbling step, it was just the start of several, and I realised I needed them more than ever.  I’ve had a hard time in London, a really ugly streak of bad luck after what was already an unusually queasy year. And I don’t think I’ve ever had such a terrible attitude in my life. Allow me to confide that I generally think the universe likes me a lot, if that doesn’t make you sick. I’ve always felt my hardships were balanced by the countless little amusements scattered all around me every day. That’s the truth, guys! I admit it!

But I have enough sense to recognise this part of the process, for me and for many, many others. It’s a theatrical ultimatum: stop or go, back or forward, fold or gamble. Seriously, I feel like a foreigner, alone in this City, struggling to make a life for myself. Everyone is advising me to quit and go back, because it’s not worth the headache. I respect that, but it won’t be happening here. I’m over that shit! Rats don’t scare me, bird poo on the bench can’t stop me. Recession, whatever. I’m here now and I’m gonna do this thing. So, wish me luck! And I wish you luck, too, if you’re in these shoes.

To my friends Kate and Ami: you know, being a foreigner in your own country for a while is as worthy an adventure as anything, and making a life for yourself is as rewarding and enlightening an accomplishment there as anywhere. No matter what you decide, please enjoy this advice my mum gave me when I was a critical mass last Monday: “Don’t forget to enjoy whats good where you are right now, so even if you decide to leave next week, make sure this week is amazing”

Hang in there baby, tomorrow could be brilliant!