An SW Reality Check...
“NOOOOOOO, MY TOFUUUUUUUUUUUU!”
In the rush to get to our 7.30am yoga class, my housemate had dropped her lunch.
As Pip scrambled to save her plant protein mush from its inevitable fate on the bottom of some finance bro’s Loake, I had a sudden realisation:
Three-quarter length leggings; mainstream wellness activity; health-conscious trendy meat alternative worth fifty quid per 100g. This was it. We’d reached rock bottom.
“Oh my god. Pip, it’s happened. We’re South West girlies.”
5 terrifying signs I’m turning into a South West Londoner:
I own a pair of Birkenstock Boston clogs. Must wear so everyone on the tube knows that although I’m in Stockwell, my outdoorsy, tree-hugging soul belongs in a converted campervan in the Outback. I’m ‘chill like that’. In ‘Taupe’, of course.
I run in Battersea Park. A magical land of men over six feet who swan around in Nike Alphaflys and lycra running shorts and compression socks pulled up to their ears and Camelbak running vests (chill out mate, it’s only a 5k). Polarised Oaklies to protect eyes when sunny, to creep on BP female running demographic– tanned, blonde, Exeter or Brookes– when raining.
I drink Guinness. As a woman. Just a bit pick-me isn’t it.
I go to ‘events’. “Clubbing just isn’t for me” *aggressively jingles excessive number of silver bangles* - said every hooped-earringed, ring-wearing, SW Trustafarian Fred-again fanatic ever.
I experience a ceaseless, profound yearning for a ‘weekend away in the country’ at least twice a week. The Northern line really is as bad as they say. Boarding school friends with at least four acres in the home counties are practically on speed dial at this point.
Guinness (and skinny scarf)!
5 relieving signs I’m not quite there yet:
I live in Brixton, not Clapham. There’s a difference darling. CoOI and EdGy. Salomans, Arc’teryx, IPAs.
I have not been to Infernos or the Swan. Made it to the queue of the former until some schoffeled Hugo Montgommery Fitzgerald Mayhew’s mating call (DIGBY, MATE, THE GIRLS IN HERE ARE LENGGGGGGG) scared me onto the 37 back to the comfort of my SE postcode. Several double vodka lime sodas (bought by NiceFlirtyAussieBloke™) likely to be held accountable for any future appearances in said venues.
I do not own any of the following items: a Stanley cup, a trench coat, anything from lulu lemon, a boyfriend (who loves rugby, business, and CrossFit!), one of those absurdly large scrunchies that look like they’re about to swallow your whole head, a pug.
I don’t work in PR. Which is apparently reeeeawy full on, yes PEEEEEAAAARRRRH is vewy vewy full on but also not toooooo bad because Minty’s boss looovvvveees her and always offers to buy her drinks on Thursdays! What fun! *wounds skinny scarf around neck several times*
Mummy and Daddy don’t live in Surrey. They live in Cheltenham, when not in our expat home in Nairobi, I’ll have you know.
Endnote: this article originally had the subtitle ‘Riddled With The Clap(ham)’. For the safety of any readers who may be reading this at work and in danger of their boss peering over their shoulder, and for other reasons including my own employment prospects, this has since been removed. I did think it was quite funny though. So it’s down here as a special treat if you’ve got this far…