Living London the Le Cool Way - Notion feature

Tap tap tap on the BlackBerry - ping those emails before going under. “I’m almost at Victoria,” pipes a woman in the next seat; her dialect can only be described as southeast suburban. iPod on. Crank the soul (or dubstep or late 80s west coast gangsta rap or that relentless female vocalist’s breakout single) and drown out the natter of confused visitors who  congregate around the only entrance to the Underground. “Excuse me, sorry, excuse me,” I mutter under my breath. Ludacris speaks my mind with fervour via the headphones, “Move bitch get out the way, get out the way bitch, get out the way.”

Waitaminute, isn’t that Debbie the Dwarf? (She’s actually just a little short) Establish we are both doing nothing, which naturally calls for wine. District Line to Embankment. What a nice inoffensive station. Rather characterless, but a calm relief to its manic neighbour Charing Cross. Gordon’s is, as usual, packed. I can’t believe both Pepys and Kipling once lived here. “Grab a bottle, I’ll find a seat,” she says. Cote de Provence rosé under the arm and two glasses between the fingertips. They’re dirty from free bean-spilling trash rags that line the system post-rushhour. Stumpy has found a table (and a cheese plate) and we’re off. The trains rumble by. The low walls and candles drip; we exasperate over the imperfect men we both love deeply.

It’s getting late. But wait. Nought to Sixty is still on at the ICA …I have time. Hot step, crisp air and the clouds have parted, it seems, just as my foot touches the far corner of St James’ Park. I used to run here. Tourists have lost their annoying edge and suddenly I’m softened as the pelicans swim by (are they still there in autumn?) and the Palace stands sturdily behind me. The walk reminds me of the holiday in Brick Lane (the book, not the place or the film).

Funny how this nothing-short-of-brilliant art/music/film/club/café venue just sort of chills out in a concrete block behind the tree-lined grandeur of The Mall. Okay it’s a bit more than a concrete block, but now I’m at Piccadilly Circus and the visitors are shocking again. Must get home. Wait, is Deal Real still open? I’ma browse for a quick minute. Luxurious ladies swim past with handbags I could kill for. Ignore, and pop into Tatty Devine for a small but satisfying purchase (and then Mrs. Kibbles next door for some rhubarb-and-custard sweets).

Oooh although it is still happy hour at Trash Palace and hurrah! Kelly’s here with her gaggle of gays. Three daiquiris later and I’ve had enough pink to paint the town Pepto Bismol. Hungry.

Chinatown is around the corner and I’m feeling a pickmeup. Dodge the rip-off artists like SARS and grab a knee-high stool at Jen’s Café on Newport Place. Hong Kong noodle soup (“extra greens please”) with bbq pork and iced coffee tea milk drink. Share the table with students from Zhong Guo and watch the madness whiz by like it’s Christmastime in NYC, but just another day around here.

Getting late. Text message received: HIPHOP KARAOKE AT THE SOCIAL. REACHIN? Yaah why nottt. After all, it’s umm Thursday? A couple of Polish martinis and I throw down. Can I kick it? Yes You Can. The crowd loves my drunk-white-girl rendition of Tribe, really, they go wild. But it is time to kick it, home.

Last tube, Central Line, chavs and thugs, guvs and bruvs. There’s a dude who looks like ZZ Top. The train rattles and the fluoro light stings the eyes, so drowsy. Coming to a halt at Bethnal Green, home sweet home of the first council housing, Jack the Ripper and the Krays. Pregentrifuckation. Trudging up the broken escalator to the top, away from where 173 folks crushed each other in a wartime panic, fresh air, breeze, trees, chips on pavement. Turn the corner and into the spot. Another day dusted. Love my London.