London Calling

Me and London have fallen out. To the point I don't think we're even talking anymore, and don't know when we will be reconciled.

On moving to London in July 2004, I'd like to think I had a fairly open mind to how our relationship would blossom and grow. Country Girl Makes Her Millions In The Big Smoke. But it didn't quite work like that.

I'm not sure who had other ideas, London or my subconcious, but we never really 'clicked'. It was like moving to a new school and being shown around by a fasionable, popular fellow student, who you secretly hoped would become your new best friend, then you both quickly realise you've nothing in common but are forced to begrudgingly sit next to forseeable future.

Its always something small that causes these arguments. The snowball effect, to push all your stress and anger forward within a tiny channel of an issue until it explodes out of the top spectacularly and, usually, rather messily.

And my tiny channel this morning would actually be my fault, I'm willing to admit that. I lost my Oyster card. While those around me will know that mess is attracted to me like wasps to a pint of Carling, I have managed to keep hold of the same Oyster card since my first week in London. The same battered, abused casing, the same picture (of me looking slightly more spritely and less haggard, I swear London is giving me premature wrinkles). Sure I've misplaced it a few times but not like this.

I think its in the house. I'm not 100% certain (lack of courage in my convictions and a distinct absence of factual evidence once again present in full force). I think I saw it last night, but that might have been the night before...(you can see where this is going).

So this morning, cue hopeless panicking and teary wailings to my boyfriend (PreTea, PreToast). Him: searching calmly and methodically, me: searching whimperingly and irratically.

I am largely annoyed with myself for losing it, I am messy, I am forgetful, I am a little (ahem) disorganised at the best of times. But I'd never lost it before and this morning wasn't a good time to start a new trend.

So, I arrived at the tube to be told by Mr Ticket Man that I lost it because I was blonde, but a 'pretty blonde, a very pretty blonde'. Even sleazy flattery from Mr Ticket Man didn't make the pain of having to shell out £6.60 for a day's travel that I'D ALREADY PAID FOR.

So, really, none of this is London's fault. But London to me is like a boyfriend that you know you're going to finish with, its just a matter of when. They make you feel irritable and uncomfortable, you blame them for everything that goes wrong in your relationship, you sleep in separate rooms, but every time you go to break it off, they tell you their dog has just been put down and you console them and carry on as normal.

My complication, ironically, is my job. I moved to London *deep breath* because of my job. Here was a city of possibilities, of prosperous multimedia activity, of rollover potential galore. In my days of innocence, I thought that it was the specific role I was doing that made me unhappy. I tried relentlessly to find 'the right role'. I have a CV that reads more like a rather uninspiring, ill thought out novel, plot lines shooting out inconclusively from the page, character profiles introduced but never mentioned again, swept under the carpet when the author realises there really isn't much substance in them.

I think my CV would terrify an employer. Staying power I have not. The amount of times I have recited the lines 'yes I have had quite a few jobs in quite a short period of time but this role really is the one I want, I really feel I could develop a career here...'

This may be why I resent London. I've spent the whole time I've been here something that I'm never going to find until I make a drastic change - happiness in my job. And London can sense it, it can smell it on me, hear it in my bitter, stress induced ramblings. Its like an older sibling hell bent on breaking me, it knows how to wind me up. My boyfriend has taken the shape of a patient, yet frustrated parent, separating us, sending us to our respective territories to calm down (as London is pretty damn well stationary this is usually achieved by driving me as far out of the city as a tank of petrol can manage, which isn't a great distance once you've crawled along the A1 on a Friday afternoon).

Another reason is that I'm largely frustrated with myself. Yorkshire Lass enthuses about a London that I don't understand, or refuse to accept. There is a whole city out there, if I can just stay up past ten o'clock or not see approaching public transport for anything other than work with the mindset that it is worse than enduring the dentist.

London is an amazing city, a beautiful city (well, in parts), colourful, vibrant, exciting, there are no restrictions here (unless you are trying to park anywhere, ever). London opens its arms to cultures, ideas, talent, it has endless possibilities, it pushes you, drives you, it desperately wants you to succeed, be the best you possibly can. I like eating beans on toast with a warm ribena. Maybe this is why we don't get on.