Big Mood
I’m having what the great Lee Ranaldo called in The Cribs’ song Be Safe, ‘one of those fucking awful, black days where nothing is pleasing and everything that happens is an excuse for anger, an outlet for emotions stockpiled.’
It’s a shitty, rainy afternoon, and I’ve been feeling particularly gloomy about London. Yes, there are the ‘real’ things, like greedy landlords and everything beautiful being developed into flats and pollution so bad that residents (including me) have been advised to keep their windows closed to avoid disastrous long-term health issues. But there are people far better equipped to discuss these issues, and in the same way you shouldn’t go food shopping on an empty stomach, it’s best to avoid getting into life’s harsher realities when you’re in a rotten mood.
So, what better time to make a list of all my petty grievances about the city I have a love/hate relationship with?
Umbrellas
As promised, I wanted to explain my biggest yet stupidest bugbear: umbrellas. If I was mayor of London, my first order would be to ban these horrible devices (except if you’re getting married, then I’ll allow).
I can’t count the number of times I’ve been poked in the eye by a low-held spoke, let alone the blunt thigh stabbings I’ve received from closed golf umbrellas wielded like Gandalf’s staff by city boys with no spatial awareness.
Why does anyone in the middle of a busy city need a golf umbrella? Why do people assume that their need to be dry negates my need to walk around without fear of being impaled? Specifically to the man in front of me on the way to work this morning, why do you feel the need to pull out a fucking gazebo to keep your cropped hair and H&M tshirt out of the rain?
Seek shelter when a momentary downpour arrives, wear a jacket with a hood or, god forbid, just get a bit wet. Grow up.
Neighbours
To be fair, I’ve had some amazing neighbours in my time here - especially the ones who saved my flatmates’ lives during a housefire by dragging their mattresses out into the street so to cushion their leap out of the burning building.
Yet although #notallneighbours are shitty, the residents of the block I currently live in are among the most uncharitable people I’ve ever come into contact with.
The development Facebook group is 30% moaning about noises, smells and other NIMBY gripes, 30% questions about how to maximise profits as a landlord or Airbnb host, 30% Marketplace listings for secondhand tat that should really be given away for free and 10% DIY questions (the only normal conversations on there).
One woman insists on posting every time she gets a whiff of weed, claiming she has to wear a literal gas mask because of the smell wafting into her home. As you know, I’ve been aff it for a while now so cannot be blamed, but it’s still tedious to witness. Firstly, not only are our windows triple-glazed, our flats come with ventilation filters, so outside odours making their way inside is rare. Secondly, we live in Zone 2 South East London - everywhere smells of green. Want the scent of freshly-cut grass an honeysuckle of a morning? Move. And thirdly, nothing good can come from smug, passive aggressive social media comments to some unnamed culprit. If it bothers you so much and you’re sure it’s someone in the block, knock on their door and talk to them like a grown up instead.
Then there’s those who try to flog their old possessions at outrageous prices. It’s mostly desk chairs from the pandemic WFH boom (‘RRP £350 but hardly used so will settle for £320 ONO’) and Made.com rubbish they overpaid for so are trying to recoup their losses. But one post was especially egregious, with a guy trying to sell champagne glasses for more than they cost online as the company had sent him two sets by accident. Whatever happened to community spirit eh?
They’re the kind of neighbours who rejoiced when police turfed out squatters at an abandoned pub nearby - no lie, some even petitioned for the building to be replaced with a Waitrose - but became irate when the council proposed new homeless accommodation that’d obscure their view of The Shard. I’d leave the group altogether if it wasn’t for the DIY tips.
Thoroughfare stoppers
I get that not everybody is a Londoner who knows to walk on the left or breeze through tube ticket barriers, but there is nowhere in the world where it’s okay to just… stop… right in the passage of pedestrian traffic.
It’s not at all hard to pull to the side if you need to check your phone or work out where you are.
I love a mosey as much as the next guy, but that’s suited to rolling hills or picturesque country paths, not the middle of a busy street. Outrageous behaviour.
Starers
Having left a rural Scottish village partly to get away from people taking the piss out of my clothes/hair/mannerisms, it’s baffling I’m still experiencing it in a metropolis like London.
Sometimes I zone out and realise I’m looking right in someone’s direction, so I try not to give absentminded staring much thought. Here I’m referring to the malicious kind - where people whisper to each other and stare or scrunch their noses like I’ve offended them by simply existing. Anyone who’s been to high school can spot the difference between the two, because the latter is actively done so you can see and are make to feel uncomfortable.
I get it once a week at least and, okay, I have pink hair, but that’s basically brown in 2023. What’s so funny and/or derisory about me?! It’s enough to send anyone into a spiral.
We have a reputation as ignorant city-dwellers who barely look up from their phones during actual emergencies to uphold. So do not perceive me. Do not acknowledge me. Respect my divine right to be a tiny fish in a massive pond and go completely unnoticed.
The Circle Line
Iykyk.
Money
This verges on the ‘big’ issues earlier, so I’m focusing on money as a first world problem rather than the bane of my existence (which it is).
EVERYTHING in this city costs money due to the sheer amount of temptation around. Something as wholesome as taking a walk up the Thames path means I end up wandering into a coffee shop and feeling guilty about my profligacy, and visiting free galleries and museums is another £8 minimum (even without eating) on transport.
Is everyone else just secretly rich? That’s the conclusion I’ve come to, because how else are people affording to really live here. One fairly meagre night out per payday leaves me skint for the rest of the month, and I’m often having to turn plans down or dip into credit cards to actually leave the house and see pals.
It wasn’t always like this either. Although my wage has gone up by a fair amount since I moved here eight years ago, plus I’m now in a couple so can split costs, I have less disposable income than ever.
People back home assume I’m well off because of ‘London weighting’, but that’s a huge myth. My parents’ rent for a four-bedroom house up north is half mine and my dad makes more than me as a train cleaner. That’s before we mention the price of a pint.
In an ideal world I’d win the lottery and buy my dream house just up the road from where Eastenders’ Big Mo lives. In the meantime, please let me be a pissy missy when it all gets a bit much. And for god’s sake put the brolly away.