Things that happen when you leave London

Once again we find a blog that starts with the infamous Joanie Brickell. Look at that little moosh. 
Although she is a London girl down to her socks, she doesn’t live here, sadly for us. She’s currently causing trouble in a little place called Herne Bay down on the Kent coast. It’s quaint. The size of my flat and you see the same people everywhere. It’s nice, just nice, but nice. 20 odd years ago Grandad and her upped sticks and left glorious South London for sea air, the British Legion Club and a 20 foot garden. They never looked back. I still prefer Tulse Hill, but they were happy with their lot.
I went down to see her yesterday and for the first time in forever, I got the train. This meant Nan & I had a little day out on our own minus a vehicle…which never happens. The lack of car and need to get around on our own, also meant that the harsh realness of what happens when you leave London hit me like a bus. 
Here’s some examples;
– Buses actually arrive at exact times past the hour, and when you get on them you have to pay with actual cash money. And ask questions like “can I have a single to the Pier please?”. Buses have never seen contactless payment cards and you actually get a paper ticket… and a smile. Head fuck.
– People speak to you at bus stops. And not as pre cursor to mugging you or chatting you up. Just to pass the time. A guy blessed me when I sneezed yesterday. Spun me out. 
– Train stations only have two platforms. Sorry, what? 
– They also don’t house a Starbucks. Or even a shop. Just a closed ticket office. 
– There’s like zero signal. Anywhere.
– There’s like shit loads of grass. Everywhere.
– There’s no bars. All of the pubs but no bars. Oh yeah, and amusement arcades are still classed as entertainment. Naturally. 
– The shop at the end of the road isn’t automatically a Sainsbury’s. Sometimes there’s like an actual greengrocers. Shocking, I know.
– The charity shops still have wedding dresses in the windows and are actually charity shop prices. You know rather than racks and racks of Marc Jacobs with an average RRP of £*get a mortgage* like in London.
– It takes forever to get anywhere. The buses service all residential roads, in the world, ever…and they actually wait at stops for their allocated departure time. Ever such a lack of urgency outside the M25.
– Everyone is well old. And well white. Real shit.
– You either get offered tea or coffee. That’s it. Lattes just aren’t a thing. Don’t dare ask for a Flat White. You will be punched. 
– People say “Hello” in the street. Sometimes they stop and comment on the weather. It’s all a bit nutty. 
– C A R B O O T S A L E S A R E E V E R Y W H E R E 
– Loads of places are cash only. And the only cash points are in actual banks. Like it’s the 90’s or some shit. Excuse me? 
– Did I mention how white and old everyone is? 
– Kids still wear Kangol. Oh yeah, that’s happening. 
– The news boards outside shops tell real, hard hitting, breaking news. Yesterday’s special “Aldi Store Opening – Delayed” – for the record, that sent the Kent Gazzette into a flurry of panic and deadlines. 
& last but not least, the thing that spun me out the most.
– Uber. “No Cars Available”. Run!!!
LLx
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Me & Mrs Jones

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So my sister’s fella bought me one of them NowTV boxes. You know the ones that give you access to pretty much every TV show and film that’s ever been released but still leave you feeling like you have nothing to watch? Yeah, that.

Well, seen as you asked, I stumbled across Bridget Jones’ Diary on there the other day. I’ve seen it circa 40 times but recovering from a savage week at work and unable to function I thought it best to watch something that required little to no concentration.

It was only three quarters of the way through when the similarities between myself and the well spoken, chain smoking blonde on the screen in front of me became abundantly clear. Obviously…not blonde. Clearly…not well spoken. Blatantly…can’t afford to live in Borough Market. HOWEVER. The below comparisons are quite frightening.

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First and foremost, she has her diary…I have this blog. Potato. Potata.

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Like our Bridg, my taste in pyjamas is second to none. I mean, there is nothing quite like the sight of a well hipped lady like me, sitting in heart printed men’s boxer shorts and an XXXXL grey jumper that someone in her family once bought in the Guinness Factory in Dublin. Coupled with a pair of specs, a distinct lack of make up and a top knot that makes me look like a teletubby. I often pull that face above when I realise I ate all the Doritos.
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I also pull this face a lot. Normally followed by me saying ‘Really?!’. Sometimes it’s aimed at people. Sometimes at situations. Often at comments that a passer by has made that has made me instantly judge them. Laura says I do this thing where I purse my lips and it instantly makes people feel really bad about themselves…apparently it’s really cutting…No idea what she’s on about. 

 My best mate Laura is literally this woman. Her advice often starts with the word ‘fuck’. Or on the exhale of a Marlborough Silver. She is ALWAYS on my side even if I’m wrong & she always, always gets me into trouble. Did I mention she says ‘fuck’ a lot. Except with Laura it’s really elongated. More like a ‘fuuucccckkkk’.

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I’ve got a penchant for bastards.
 They have a bigger penchant for me.
I’m working on it. 

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 Me & my mates have been known to class wine as a food group and replace meals with it more often than we should. Katie introduced me to wine and I hate her & love her for it in equal measure. Sometimes we do it in our jim jams like Jones.

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Most Sunday’s in the winter, I like to sit on my sofa, in my duvet, and eat an entire bar of Galaxy. The above image pretty much epitomises my winter weekends. It also signifies how well a duvet does at hiding the rolls that appear around your midriff after the 6th bar of Galaxy. It’s like a feather down confidence boost.

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Like Jones, I always give myself a talking to on the way to work & genuinely convince myself that by the time I’ve got to work I will have lost four stone, got promoted & miraculously became an overnight superstar just like whichever 22 year old starlet is on my iPod.



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I’m also proper shit at kareoke. Trust me. It’s bad. Like, really bloody bad.

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I too, am dreadful at fancy dress. Nothing ever fits, my boobs get in the way and rather than look like a playboy bunny siren, I just look like a twat. Best yet was when I went to a Halloween do dressed as a ventriloquist dummy. I got stuck in the rain which turned my make up to mud and made me look like Courtney Love had had an affair with a Lego man. Needless to say, I didn’t pull that night.
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Similarly, when attractive people of the opposite sex are nice to me, I more often than not turn into a bumbly mess. 

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…then there’s the line I feel I utter in my head on too frequent a basis.

& last but not least the picture that sums it all up just lovely.

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 Except my Mum is actually a don. The one difference.

LL x