The Armstrong& Miller show, live in Wimbledon

The monitor shows 7.40pm when I arrive at the station. The play starts at 8pm, leaving me enough time to stroll down the Broadway toward the New Wimbledon Theatre. It's the first time I'm going to the theatre on my own so I don't want to be too early and spend three hours looking at the curtains (I'm not great at socialising...).

As I sit down (between two huge men), I notice two set of eyes looking, straight from the stage, down at me. It’s like I’m facing Mona Lisa. Wherever I look, they’re looking at me. I feel self conscious but in a nice way. I look around to avoid the eyes fixed on me. The red curtains, the white statues, the wooden stairs, the banisters and wonder if in England too, having green in a theatre is bad luck. I can’t see any so I guess so.

 I was sitting in the same room just two weeks ago for the Vagina Monologues. It was a brilliant show, funny, sensible, sad. Three woman, Three chairs and it was enough to fill the entire room.

This is a different show. I won't give you a review, being a admirer of Armstrong and Miller, I could hardly be objective. Plus I don't want to take the risk of giving you the details about the show as it would be a shame. I loved being surprised by them more than anything and wouldn’t want to spoil it for potential viewers.  Ok, as you insist, here is a little insight: food fight, songs about anus, spectator abuse, chorus etc…are some of the many entertainment laid down for you.

It was even more succulent as  the show had a special touch for the People of  Wimbledon (which reminds me I added a special touch to my neighbour too as I kept unintentionally wiping my shoes on his trousers...).

After the show, one of the spectator told his girlfriend ( I see couples everywhere so it could have been is sister) "amazing stuff". It made me think how easily we use some words like 'amazing', 'awesome', 'gorgeous', 'beautiful' so much that they don't mean anything anymore (my flatmate thinks Cheryl in Hollyoaks is beautiful...). But then I realised that I was amazed. Not only by the performance of the comedians, but the way they reached to the public and grabbed it to be part of the show with them. For a moment, the whole room was one, there was no strangers, no worries, just everybody having fun together. And this, I have to say, is pretty amazing. 

  

http://www.armstrongandmiller.co.uk/

The cinema buddy, a new quest on every Wednesday

When the music starts, I turn around to check the clock. The shortest hand is on the 7th dot, it's time to wake up. I sleepwalk to the bathroom, take a shower, have a breakfast. Bus. Train. Finally I get to the office. Still half asleep I turn to my colleague.
-"Are we Friday?"

-"Nope, sorry, only Wednesday!"
-"Yes, movie day! Cool!".

Yes good news is: As an Orange user I get a free ticket when I buy one, on Wednesday (don't worry if you don't have Orange, the difference on your monthly bill is probably worth the cinema ticket).

Bad news is: Every Wednesday, I have to bug all my friends to find a cinema buddy. This is where I hate Orange. Instead of making my life simple and selling half price tickets on Wednesday, they had to force me to go with somebody. Is there no single people working in this company?! Don't they know that you can enjoy a good movie on your own ?! 

The rule is not gonna change so I have two options:

1/Pay full price which I'm not inclined to do because it's a f****** rip off.
2/Find somebody to come with me.

I honestly thought about standing in front of a cinema asking strangers if they would share the ticket (no string attached, we don't have to sit together) but I though that this might be wrongly interpreted by the high level of sex depraved men living in this city (believe me they don't need to wait too long to feel depraved already).

So, my only available option is to bug my friends until one break and agrees in joining me. But this is not the end. The road to cinephile relaxation is long and full of obstacles.

Three criteria need to be filled:

-my friends need to be free. Few of them are willing to buy a ticket on the way to a dinner for a movie they're gonna see (precisely because they'll be eating the previously mentioned diner)
-they need to want to watch the same movie(s) as I do
-they can't be living on the other side of London because I'm already working in the utter space and there is just so much traveling I can take in a day.

This means, that on Wednesday, I start the day by updating my Facebook status to check who would be up for a movie. Then as several friends from Montréal, Sydney, Paris and Dublin but none from London have accepted the offer, I start texting my more local friends. Not all in the same time, this could create problematic situations, usually two by two. When the first two have told me to stop watching movies, get a life and leave them alone, I text the second bunch. 

After being let down by two and receiving two "no" the so long waited for "yes" comes up on my phone's screen. So I can now wish you all a happy Orange Wednesday!

In 10 years, maybe I'll have to stand in the street as I won't have any more friends to bug (not that they'll be dead I hope not, but they'd have all told me to f*** off) or maybe, I'll have a private cinema in my house, where I'll be enjoying movies with my friends (who let's be honest, will deserve it), who knows ?

The breastfeeding mother

              A woman comes in, sits down, lifts her blue shirt and starts breastfeeding the newborn she's holding. An older woman, sitting behind her with a shopping bag on her legs, gives an approving smile. A bunch of teenagers, standing in the middle of the bus with their instrument, start laughing awkwardly. Three guys from the same office stare at her. The athletic driver makes up his mind to go and ask her to cover up. She gets upset and tell him that breastfeeding is permitted in public places. He strongly advise her to do as requested. She threatens to sue the bus company on the ground that it is a breach of her Human right.
              The tiny woman is upset. She doesn't notice the blond girl behind her reading her paper back book. The English student was stopped by the raised voices and is now wondering. "What makes breastfeeding more natural than being naked ? Why can't we get naked in the bus claiming that it's our Human right ? Why is it ok to show your breast on the beach or in the park but not in the street ? The German would surely be happy!" She then notices the tall brown guy lurching at the animated woman and turns back to her book.
             He brushes the sandwiches' crunches of his shirt and whisper to this mates:
-"I bet she goes to unisex gym and swimming pool. Wouldn't want some perves like us to check out her butt in the mirror when she does her exercises but doesn't mind showing her boobs in the bus!" The group starts laughing. 
-"Come on guys, this is a beautiful mother-son bonding" sarcastically points out a handsome red haired man in a brown suit before adding, "gosh I wish I could suck her tits too!".
             Behind them, a couple is still very sleepy from their house warming party last night. The woman's head is set steadily on her husband's shoulder. She doesn't like all this. She doesn't like seeing the woman breast, she doesn't even like people putting make up or cutting their nails in the bus so breastfeeding! She looks at her other half and can see he shares her thought. "Is there no more sense of privacy ? Where is the boundary between liberty and respect of other people's discomfort ?"
            The bus stops, the mother stands up and walks out. She can feel the eyes following her every steps but doesn't care. Her baby is fed and happy and that's what matters.

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/humiliated-mother-forced-off-bus-for-breastfeeding-1910528.html

The Squirrel Eater Family

-"What we having tonight mum?" At the sound of the little voice, Miranda standing in the Kitchen, a red apron tied around her waist, turns around.

-"Squirrel with roast potatoes". John's face immediately lights up into a giant smile.
-"Cool love it!"
-"Well, I can tell you a story about it" she says bending down so her face nearly touches his. "Years ago, people got very upset when a shop decided to sell Squirrel meat in North London." The kid looks at her with clear doubt.
-"Why's that? It's good!"
-"Yes it is" she agreed standing up again, "but some people thought it was very mean to kill the little squirrels. So does Dad, he still can't eat them.."
-"That's right Dad? I thought you were allergic!"asks John as a slim figure comes through the white, freshly painted, door.
-"Well kiddo, I'm not. I think we should leave squirrels alone".
-"But Mrs Brown says there are too many brown squirrels and they destroy the habitat of the red ones and that's why we kill them to protect the red ones, does she lies ?" asks the child his brown eyes eager to stand up for his favourite teacher.
-"No, not completely. But we eat them because a shop owner has decided that'd be good advertisement. Not really to help the red ones." explained the husky voice.
-"But Daddy knows it is always better to kill two birds with one stone" added Miranda with a teasing smile.
-"Or two squirrels".
-"Don't' be sarcastic Trevor!" she orders, knowing it was a helpless cause.
-"Well don't accept false excuses and I won't be" he replies, returning the teasing smile
-"Jonathan, why don't you ask Daddy why he doesn't mind us eating beef, lamb, fish, goose and so on?". Miranda was now preparing the salad, taking the brown leaves out of the bowl.
-"Why don't you mind us eating beef, lamb, fish, goose and so on Daddy?" obediently repeats the little boy.
-"Because they're the usual suspects and they are enough of them already to feed us. We don't need to eat weird stuff like the Chinese" defends Trevor, putting the blue plates on the wooden table.
-"Daddy is turning into a racist, don't listen to him darling." sarcastically commented Miranda, now adding the sauce she had just finished to prepare.
-"But seriously, do we need to eat squirrel ?" insists Trevor, grabbing John's little red plastic cup from his hand.
-"I don't know ask the Peruvian if they need to eat guinea pigs and the French if they need to eat frogs, snails or horse. And I'm sure Indians would like to know why we needs to eat beef. Who gets to decide which animals we should or should not eat ? Are squirrels safe because they are cute ? Shall we eat only ugly animals ? What is the rule ? Tell me. Because as far as I am concerned, any dead meet is good to eat". Points out Miranda, whipping her hands on her apron before undoing the tie.
-"Would you eat me dead?" teases Trevor, looking at their reflection on the back window behind his wife.
-"If you keep on being irrational I might have to! But I'll try not to unless we crash in the Andes." laughs Miranda before kissing his soft skin, darker than hers.
-"So are we having squirrels mummy ?" checks Jonathan, ready to grab his matching plate and fork.
-"Yes, with some ugly chicken for your daddy because as much as we can choose to eat it, he can refuse to eat it and we should always respect other people's choice." Concluded Miranda sitting in front of Trevor, next to Jonathan. "Enjoy your meal".

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-10805570

The Proud Father

He wears a big smile on his face and behind his glasses are proud, watering eyes. The feeling is overwhelming. He holds his wife's tiny hands to steady his tall body up. His legs are shaking and his heart pounding. I wonder how it feels to be there. Standing on the side of a stage with your wife. Looking at your child, now an adult, a musician playing in front hundreds. 

His eyes run over the crowd and his head tries to absorb the scene. He thinks about how he got there. The images are flooding in his head. Winter 1979. A scream. Joel's tiny pink hand reaching for his. The little red drums that didn't catch the kid's attention. The spark as the 6 years old holds a guitar. All those nights where Carey, Tim and Stephen would come over to the house in Dartford and listen endlessly to Blur, The Flaming Lips, Radiohead, Grandaddy, Oasis, Graham Coxon etc...The teenager, working with the youth group, writing and singing his songs. The creation of the band, practicing and recording at the Bear. The American tour. Joel sitting, his blue eyes set on the last edition of National Geographic.

He was supportive of the boys, never doubting even when he was worried. It wasn't long before people started seeing what he had seen years ago. How brilliant was his son. How the music was glowing in him. Two platinum albums, the Ivor Novello Award. Not bad. Not bad at all.

His hands slide over his face and feel the wrinkles. There has been hard times to. For his family, his grandchildren, for the band. But those kids are driven. They take the strength from their lows and turn it into highs.

He smiles as Carey puts his bass down to take a picture. Now is the big moment. Time to sing. "What a great way to celebrate our 40th wedding anniversary" thinks The Proud Father. When the music starts, Joel's melancholic voice takes him to the sky. From above, he sees the stage set in the garden of the Old Royal Naval College; the other choir members also dressed as pirates; the boys playing happily; his son, standing beautifully in the middle of the stage, singing along with the crowd. What a great way to celebrate our 40th wedding anniversary indeed.

In 10 years ? The Proud Father may be celebrating again on stage or he'll be enjoying a quite moment with his family, who knows ?

 

http://www.athlete.mu/home

The Football Nerd

It is finally over! When you are not a big football fan (and that's a euphemism to say I found it more enjoyable to brush my toe hair with a cheese greeter) the World Cup is just a pain in your backside. The world think football, breathe football and more annoyingly, talk football. Day and night, seven days a week, it's all about the round ball.

But I have to say that as much as it does my head in, it is impossible not to be overwhelm by the enthusiasm, the hope, the energy that the people release in a city whose pavement is trodden by so many football fans (especially when you live between 2 stadiums – don't ask me what went through my head). “I hate football but the sense of belonging it brings and everybody getting involved is such a nice friendly feeling” one of my friend, rightly stated. I even gave in and went to the pub to watch some games myself. Enjoying sharing a drink with friends, betting on the winner, trying to understand what the fuss was about (I even watched an English game with some colleagues in my office's boardroom while a friend's company completely shut down!).

Some do understand it well. In Camden Town lives a football fan called the Autistic. He's the guy who only wants internet on his mobile to get football scores, as a sport newspaper as home page on his computer, starts the newspapers by the end and can lightly talk about the company in charge of the electricity in a random stadium. Quite scary really.

During the world cup, the big question for many people was : which team am I going to support ? It might seem weird but many people didn't put many hopes on their home countries and were already thinking about plan B. Being French, he didn't take him long to realise he was screwed. England then ? Not much help either...Lucky for him, he happens to study Spanish, that was a much better bet. Isn't betrayal not to support your team til the end some may ask ? I see it like the chicken and egg story : if they let you down, why should you bother? Although I need to add that I personally believe the chicken was first which might impair my judgment.

With his misbehaving curly hair, round black glasses and relaxed trousers, the Football Nerd would leave the site where he engineers and go straight to the pub to watch the evening's game. He collects t-shirts from all around the world football teams but don't wear them as much as he used too (thanks to his girlfriend). Except when the world cup is on. Pure pleasure. My month of Hell (ok I'm exaggerating) is his month of Heaven (I am not exaggerating).

Now it's finished. The pubs are quieter, the streets cleaner, people back to silence, the summer and its ghost town atmosphere has wrapped the city up. The football nerd is back to wearing normal t-shirt and watching unknown 3rd zone teams play. Until the next big football event comes up and brings him back to full life.

You can check out his blog here

The Broken heart

The alarm clock breaks the nightmare of last night. One of many nightmares. He's here, fadding away, he's here, hurting her, he's here, distant, he's gone. It's always about him. Slowly, she'll stand up, eat some digestive,  take a shower. Her body knows this routine she repeats every day. But today she doesn't wonder what her day's gonna be made of. The nightmares are still bluring her mind. This whole story is blury. She's not sure what happened. She doesn't try to remember.
The bus crosses the Bridge, her eyes plunge in the Thames's dark water. Standing on the train platform, she wonders how she got there. It's like she's on autopilot. People walk around her, off the train, in the train and again. Buzzing around her, they don't see her. Buried inside a book, she doesn't see them. She's far away in another story. Anything but hers.
During the day she could almost forget. She works, socialise, laugh, goes to the gym etc. Her life hasn't stop. But her body can't hide it. She looks at her pale reflection in the bathroom mirror. She didn't cry but her eyes are red. She had lunch but her body feels weak, almost sick. 
She goes out in the evening, mets her friends for a drink in a busy Australian pub in Shepherd's Bush, or a small Italian coffee in Richmond. Life goes on as before.
But it's not as before, she knows it. She could hear the sound of another piece of her heart hitting the floor.
She can feel the emptyness. She misses him. He wasn't perfect, maybe he wasn't the right one, but he was hers. She loved him for what he was.
She has learnt a long time ago that love is not enough. But every time it's like a little death. The other kind.
She is not scared of being alone. Living alone in London, dying alone somewhere else. She thinks everybody does anyway or only few don't.
She's strong, fer friends don't need to worry.
But sometimes she'd like to be weak, break into thousands of pieces and be carried away by the strong wave of the Atlantic. Disappear to be something else.

The Singing Talker

Walking in the street of London, you hear many different accents. Scottish, Welsh, South-African, Indian, Australian,  Italian, Polish, French, American, etc...After a few years it becomes quite easy to recognise them and can even become a game (like French do with the number plates on the motorway).
 My personnal favourite has always been the Scottish accent. First, it always amaze me that after all these years I still have NO idea what they're saying. Second, they sound to me like a Belgian talking English while eating a potato and that never fails to amuse me (I know I know, my sense of humour is all about subtilities).
The Singing Talker was born in la ville rose de Toulouse, South of France. Or shall I call it, la ville rause as they would say over there. Like Mancunian or Scousers, Southerners French have a particular accent. For Toulousain, the silent "e" or "s" are not silent ( eh non ma petiteeeeeuuu sinon c'est moinsssss joli); words ending with "in" or "ain" gets a free "g"  (du bon ving et du bon paing) and "r" are prounonced the Spanish way.
Sunny and pinky, the Singing Talker is like her city. She moved to London over 6 years ago. A bright, hard-working Biology student at the Imperial College, she got her PHD and was soon employed by an independent laboratory.
Like many people, after few years in London, her Southern accent got smoother. You can still hear she's French but being around many Northener, her Toulousain accent fadded. Everytime she goes back home though, it becomes as strong as before. 
For a non Francophones, it's quite hard to hear the difference between a French Northener and Southern accent. It is much easier, to recognise an Indian accent (velcome to vaterloo my French friends, ooh mah goosh, dat ees der veree offenseev).
In her lab, the Singing Talker works with Indians. She's never been to India, takes Spanish lessons with her boyfriend. But guess what happened ? Her natural predisposition to get an accent means she caught her colleagues'. Imagine the reaction of people being introduced to a French girl speaking English with an Indian accent ? They often doubt her when she insist she's never been to India. Hard to believe ? Well, not so much in London.

Hands up and Hands down

"-It's coming up, everybody's talking about it, on TV, on radio ...
-That's not true, nobody's talking about it ! The biggest election are coming up and nobody seems interested about it" Hands up doesn't like being interrupted. Especially by this politician to be, always here to tell people what to do or not to do. Such a twat. It's enough to have to hear about it all day long without having somebody lecturing you on how you should care about it.
-"Why should we talk about it ? There is nothing to say. Always the same liars, the same fake smiles, the false same promess.
-So doing nothing is your solution ? How is that gonna help ? You complain about everything and when you have a chance to be heard you just lie down and hide".
This lazy moron. Hands down can't bear people like him. They ruin democracy. For century people fought for the right to vote and look at this lazy bastard happy to shout that all those fights have been a waste. As short-sighted as a little worm.
-They will know we are unhappy, a massive abstention sends a clear message.
-It doesn't stop political parties from being elected. 
-So explain to me, you who knows so much, who should we vote for ? Which party is going to be different ? Come on, they even have the same program !
-Do you want to give the power to somebody from Right or Left ?
-Stalin or Hitler
-Very funny. It's not black or white and actually it doesn't have to be so binary either.
-Why don't you do politics since you like so much ?
-Can't I cook if I'm not a Chef ?
-Are you 5 or something ? You do realise that power fucks up everybody; none of them even remotely cares about what happens to us. Why do you care about them ?
-Because it's my money, my education, my job, my pension they're dealing with, surely I should care and so should you !
-When they will stop being so fake and do their jobs, surely I will do.
-Let's hope it won't be too late then".

Made of Stone and Iron

 My feet in the water, I have been over looking London for many years. I can hardly feel the cold and brown water of the Thames splashing against my skin. But I can see the wounds it leaves on me. 

I am getting old but I am still strong and beautiful. People come from all around the world to see me and my sisters. Everyday, they come to me. Some are curious and ask me many questions, some just want to look at the wonder I have become. Some are scared.

I have seen a girl coming to me many times. She is scared of me even though she says she loves me. I keep on telling her how strong I am but she can't help it. She looks at me for hours, she says I calm her down. But she can't come to me. It saddens me. I wish she could come closer. Touch me, learn about me. Most people don't look at me anymore. They see me but they don't look. She does. She talks to me.

I have so many stories I would tell her if I could. Hours I would spend talking about it. Kings, Queens, stars, I've seen them all; and riots and murders; I've even seen a whale!

All those years I've been watching the city change. The buildings, the streets, the people. Good or bad I couldn't tell. Somehow it seems to be always the same. History repeating as they say...

A boat comes toward me, the waves are more intense. Sometimes, when a storm comes, they tickle my waist. I lift up my arms, waving at the passengers taking pictures. It takes a lot of my strength but it keeps my old bones from rusting. As I am Made Of Stone and Iron.

The Job Huntress

             Sitting at her desk, scanning through job lists, the Job Huntress wonders if she'll ever find the right position for her. She had a job not so long ago, but couldn't bear it anymore. She decided to leave. With the actual economic drop, finding another one might be a hard job itself but she didn't care. 
            "Why did you leave?", "Have you applied for other jobs?", "Are you looking properly?", "Is your CV up to date?". Are some of the thousands questions people throw at her. Her friends are worried, her family is worried but she doesn't care. "If I don't care, why do people care?" she asks. I'm sure there are many single or childless people who love to know the answer to this one...

Reading this, you might think she's irresponsible, light headed, maybe stupid. Well, she's none of that but the opposite! She always weight her options before taking a decision, pays her bills on time, make sure everything is planned, in one word: responsible.

           The Job Huntress even used to be a careerist. Wanting to be the best at her job. Thing is: she always thought she'd love her job but never had the opportunity to. So for now, after years of taking shit from a bitch (not me, a mean one), she's decided she deserved a break. Relax, go to the gym, help out some friends, just do random things. She does look for jobs but is not overly stressed about the whole situation. She realised that after all, work is not everything in life. You work to live no the other way round.

Paris, between David and Goliath

Sitting silently in the bus, putting her make up on, Paris is on her way to school. Her pale skin is hidden under foundation, her blue eyes circled by heavy black, her pink lips covered by gloss. During the 10 minutes she sits in the bus, she checks herself in the mirror and combs her hair a thousand times.

Paris looks at the face of the other passengers. They all look distant, sad or tired. She wonders why they are not taking more care of themselves. The clothes they wear, the way they tie their hair or put make-up on. She opens her fashion magazine and relaxes. There, are the people who do things the right way. They look happy. She wants to be like them. Then, she’ll feel like them.

On the way back home, she takes out her mobile and start socialising with her friends. She knows that all the information she puts online are used to turn her into a consumer, a two-legged advertisement. "What can I do against it? Nothing!” she quickly answers to herself. She wonders if she’s going to be happier when she’ll get the next top item she has order online from the "recommended list". Although she knows that once she'll have it, she'll just want something else. She always does.

Sometimes, she thinks about her granny who fought against convention, for women and individual rights. "What happened?". She hopes that someday she'll meet somebody she can be herself with, without the smoke screen. The more she looks around her, the more she doubts it. She's loosing touch with privacy. Nobody leaves her alone, neither does the big marketing guys who are following her every move nor does the CCTV.

Paris is only a teenager, still growing up. "How can I be myself if they don't let me build myself?". She knows she looks like a product, a doll nicely sitting on a shelf. She can see the looks of pity from others.  She turns away from them, faking indifference. But in her head, is always the same question: "if my parents can't protect me against the system, how can I protect myself?".

The T Total Dragon

"There is a spy in your company. She will destroy all our stock. Do not let her anywhere close to it". This warning note could be send to one of the biggest wine company in Europe for among her employees is an unusual person. One for who wine is not Gods' elixir. This is no surprise really, dragons are not known for liking alcohol and she is a very strong-minded T Total Dragon.

In our European culture, and even more in England, being a T Total is a social disease. When you're T Total working for a wine company, you become a complete freak. "What?? you are working for a wine company and you don't drink Wine?!" people would tell her. Like you must always enjoy the product your company is selling. Are all the employees of Pfizer taking Viagra? I doubt it…

To add to her misery, The T Total Dragon is French. "What?? you are French, working for a wine company and you don't drink Wine?!" is what people would really tell her. It might be a shame to be French and not drink wine but is enjoying your country’s products an obligation too? Not sure the vegetarian Kiwi would say so, poor souls missing out on the world's most famous lamb. 

In the end you don’t need to be a freak to freak out people. Unfulfill one of their prejudices and they’ll nicely put you in a little box stamped “Freak”. “Really what is wrong with you?” she’s been asked many times, “why don’t you drink wine?”. This only pinpoints that in London (maybe more than anywhere else) not drinking is view as a flaw.

She is a very confident T Total Dragon; a metal music lover, usually wearing black clothes, amplifying her pale skin. “I don’t drink” she’ll simply state. If you have a problem with her not drinking it only means you have a problem. She is happy to remind you that. Sadly, in a city where drinking is a social habit, she is not making much point stating this truth. Being shy and straightforward can make you look like an asocial bitch when you only are a T Total Dragon.

The Other Cinderella

If the tale of Cinderella was written nowadays, it would probably take its inspiration from The Other Cinderella. Actually it could be based on the life of many people who are the vicitims of cold capitalism, like her. The Other Cendrillon works for a hotel. A beautiful, very expensive hotel. But all day long it is not beauty and money that she deals with. She is a cleaner and very badly paid one.

The Other Cinderella, is the kind of person who is ashamed to ask for holidays or payrise, and who works harder than many because she doesn't want to let her colleagues down or to give a bad impression to the guests. Those guests can be arrogant twats, it doesnt matter, its not about them but about her pride. Some would find it strange since her job is to clean toilets and pick up the shit they leave in their room, but whatever you do, you can always choose to do it with class or not.

The Other Cinderella is not a big girl. Her dark eyes, and her short black hair could give her some kind of cold looks. But once she has opened her mouth it all goes away. There's only smiles and glitter coming out. You can't leave her 5 minutes in the street without taking the risk of having to talk to the 10 person she has just met. Nothing sexual (she's in a long and happy relationship), she just wants to talk, to everybody, all the time. Being Italian might add up to this obsessive-compulsive disorder.

What The Other Cinderella really wants is children. But in London, with her salary, it's impossible. She can hardly live, survivre more like it. I will never understand why a company (or in this case a hotel) which makes so much money doesn't think appropriate to pay their employees a fair salary. Wouldn't they work harder and/or better if they felt respected? Wouldn't they want to stay longer? Wouldn't it give a better image of this company (or hotel)? The gap, which separates the top jobs from the low ones, is getting bigger and this leads to troubles. I might be idealistic but I think a fair salary throughough the company is healthier, for everybody.

Some people think you can't blame the guest. They earned money, they spend it, fair enough. The Other Cinderella and I would disagree. When you know (and if you are not a selfish moron, you should) that the person cleaning your room is earning approximatly nothing compare to you, the least you can do is leave a tip. The Other Cinderealla was suprised to see how only few of them do. Surprised as well to see how they would behave by trying on her, being rude, ignoring her. All those kind of behaviour she doens't know.

When The Other Cinderella started working for this hotel, she knew it wouldnt be fun. But she didnt expect to be treated as a slave. If Cinderella was written nowadays, it wouldn't be about marrying a Prince but a rich guy. Before, you could be a Noble without having any money. Now the richs are in charge. And they make a hell of a good job telling the others that they do not care about them more than Nobles cared about the rest of the population. Hopefully for her, The Other Cinderella wants something money can't buy, she just wants to be happy.

Black burning heart

His curly hair would makes some Welsh turn their back on sheep, his face has broken some heart and his deep voice, made him master of many ears. Black burning heart is not somebody you forget.

He has moved to London, nearly two years ago. "My band had split up, so did my girlfriend, I didn't have a job so I decided to move and make it in London". It seems easy enough, but really it isn't. It is hard to leave your family, your friends, and your history behind, even if you are 24 and only 200 miles from home. Lots of people come to London to "create" somebody else, to change who they were or what they did, to erase things they wanted to forget. I did it, and so I know you never really can do it. Black burning heart didn't either. His roots are still tied to him and this is a good thing. Not being a Londoner, but being one of the rare English in London, gives him a different outlook on things. The love/ hate relationship that he has with a city gives him strength.

We do have some similarities even if we are very different people. He too wants to live up to his passion. No just be satisfied in an easy path but try something different, to see how far he can go. Real passionate are quite rare. People ready to loose everything to fulfill their dreams. Black burning heart is one of them. He's often lacking sleep, sometimes seems selfish to his friends and family but never looses sight of his goal. Loads of people are scared of him, of his passion. If he is right, they might have wasted their life. I envy him this strength. I am not even half as focused and determined as he is.

Determination is something he does need here. Competition is tough in London. You just need to see the number of gigs played every night to see it. Being a talented bassist in a brilliant metal band might not be enough. Nowadays, people would rather buy Susan Boyle's CD than look for any good artist. Music is turning into a soulless business. You are either a rock star or you're nothing, there is not many alternatives.

I am not worried for him. "Talent is nothing without hard work" and he has both. Soon enough, he will rock this city and over the seas.

http://www.keanemusic.com/

Cixxi, a silenced writer

Black hair, brown eyes, big boobs and firm ass, Cixi is sexy and so am I (not my word). We're both independent woman, often rebellious,(sometimes shameless) but always faithful (to our convictions). I didn't take her name out of the blue (I added an "X" per modesty - yes, I do have some, somewhere). I do not have powers but we share strength. And while Troy was her territory, London is my playground.

When you write in newspapers, moving to a country which you don't speak the language of seems like a bad idea. And it is. That's what I did though and never regretted it. 5 years later, I can use Shakespeare's language (not as well as he did but) well enough to decide it is time. Time to get back to my first love (I am not talking about my ex).

Being a writer is a complex mater. You don't become Conan Doyle or Virginia Wolf one morning (unless you're them). And even if you are lucky enough to have the talent (finger crossed), you need stories. "It is always better to write about something you know" is an old proverb. I am not always following this advice (or any) but here I have decided to do so. 

London is a complex city, so are its people and their stories. A cleaner working for one of London's most luxurious hotels; a soulful musician, trying to find his way up against market robots; a T total working for a wine company etc. these are some of the stories I will write about.

I am not a silent witness and from now on, I won't be a silenced writer. Good luck to you all.

In 10 years? I might be a famous columnist, writer or just a successful employee doing my 9am to 5pm in an office, who knows?
http://www.lanfeust.com/