Me and Foo

For the past three months or so I’ve been taking inspiration for my writing from the Foo Fighters, but until now, I haven’t actually written about the band itself. Here goes.

My writing process has meant immersing myself in the entire Foo Fighters output, some of which helps transport me back to inhabiting the skin of my twenty-something self, and all of which has been a source for moulding characters, personalities and situations. I’ve relished this system and it hasn’t been a case of having the Foos tinkling in the background while I tap out a chapter (I don’t actually think that's possible). What I mean is I’ve been listening intently to the lyrics, just like I used to hang onto the words of The Beatles when I was 12, listening and making up stories in my head. Sometimes I’m not sure if the music brings me the story, or if the story fits the music. Whatever it is, it works for me. 

To look at me, you'd probably never guess I'm pounding the London pavements with ‘White Limo’ blaring on my headphones, or ‘Good Grief’ or ‘The Sky is a Neighbourhood’. I expect you’d see me as mumsie, approachable and probably into James Blunt. No. When the kids watch 'Monsters University' they laugh at Sherri Squibbles, the death-metal loving mum, they point at her and look at me - "that’s you that is", they say. Sigh. I don’t mind, I’m resigned. But I will have you know I don’t wear curlers or a floral dressing gown, but “does anyone need gum?” 

Of course in my head I’m still the fresh faced girl who wiped off the heavy 50s-inspired eye makeup, pulled on the combat trousers and quite literally gave herself whip-lash, head-banging to ‘Breed’ with her mate Paul. Nirvana felt dangerous and sexy and attracted both genders. A couple of girlfriends who were equally into Nirvana back then also liked bands like Stone Temple Pilots and Soundgarden. But in my circle no one (male or female) but me progressed to the Foo Fighters. Until ‘Learn to Fly’ of course. 

I've loved listening to the tracks I've not heard for a while, the whole exercise is a joy, an absolute blast. I’ve concluded that David Grohl needn't write a memoire, although I dearly wish he would as he’s a born raconteur. His life story is all there in the songs: pain, sex, loss, love, sex, resolve, joy, hate, sex, glory, self-doubt, wonderment, melancholia and sex, all in chronological order. Did I mention sex? Is it just me, my interpretation? Isn’t sex the bedrock of, er, rock? Dave bangs hard, we all know that, but he is also a contemplative songwriter. I can’t write poetry and lyrics kill me. I can’t distill a thought or feeling down to its very essence like he does. I’m not here to give examples, fans will know what I mean. If you don’t already know, go and take a listen. 

There’s a novel in all of us, so it goes, and of course I dream of my own ISDN number and the all important cover to be judged on, but I have no illusions that what l’m writing is worthy of printing. Mostly I’m writing just to see if I can. I’m muddling through, trying to create and, no, I don’t want to go to a creative writing class, I read a lot and I just want to figure it out for myself. 

The following thought makes me laugh: if my life were a well-thumbed book, the places where the spine would be cracked and where the pages would voluntarily fall open, would be in the chapters covering the 90s to mid-00s. Things were so exciting. The soundtrack to that magical era is an eclectic, varied one, covering all genres contemporary to the time and from all the preceding 20th century musical epochs. I can think of very few artists whose output has spanned the two decades plus since that time, and fewer still that I’ve kept up with and in fact grown up with. But  many of my life’s significant events have had the Foo Fighters as a backdrop. Nine albums in the bag and still going strong.

Now I have a whole new album to help me write! And with the rest of their discography fresh in my mind, I’m irritated to read reviews of Concrete and Gold that say its just more of the same old Foo Fighters. Firstly, if it were, I’d be fine with that. Secondly, no, no, no, it’s the biggest shift in sound they’ve ever made. I’ve also heard some people coming from a opposite stance saying they don’t like the change. To counteract that, I say embrace change, its the only constant in life you can rely on happening. Who wants to be staid and stand still? Diversity is good too, mixing it up is pretty. (The temptation to get political here is strong but I’ll rein it in.) The same goes for what you create. I suppose you can’t please all the people can you? And musical taste is a very personal thing. 

For me Concrete and Gold is wonderfully different to past Foo Fighters albums. It wasn’t made at home in Dave Grohl’s garage or his super-duper 606 Studio. It was recorded at legendary East West, produced by pop guy Greg Kurstin. Yes, pop. I love the result, the change is not one I’ve had to work at to like. It suits me, I like Dave’s tracked up vocals, I like the intertwining melodies and the fuller layers of instruments and BVs. The Foo sound on this is lusher, fleshier and more harmonic than ever. This makes it huger, I don’t mean in a thump-your-way-through-it type way, the banging on this is more subtle, maybe cleverer even. On the whole the feel of the record is thoughtful and melancholy with an overriding theme of ‘what the hell is happening in the world?’, which I think at least half of the planet can relate to right now. This record hangs together brilliantly and flows easily from track to track in the style of a concept album of old. I love that Concrete and Gold makes me want to lie in green grass staring at the stars. 

So not everyone likes this new record, and you know, that’s OK. I don’t like everything the The Beatles ever did and they are the best band that ever were (I will fight you on this one). ‘Octopus’s Garden’ reviles me, and don’t give me ‘Savoy Truffle’, I’ll only tell you where to put it. I don’t like ‘While My Guitar Gently Weeps’ (I’m ducking here) and there’s more than one area on my old White Album vinyl that is still as glossy as the day I bought it. But I love The Beatles just as passionately, possibly more so, as the ‘flaws’ only help the brilliance stand out. However, again, its all a matter of personal taste.

I love that this band like that they are viewed by some as a, wait for it…. ‘Dad Band’. What impresses me is that they don’t stand still or exploit their past glory. Maybe what keeps creative people going is the fact that they’re never fully satisfied with what they create. They constantly strive to reach some sort of artistic nirvana (forgive me), where everything formed is a perfect representation of what they imagined when they first set out. I think we all do that, I hope so, just keep moving forward. 

I know that its important for the Foo Fighters to write songs that can be replicated well in concert. Run works live, so does Sky and La Dee Da. Not all fans will agree, but I think it would be exiting to have more experiments, even more risk taking. I want more Taylor Hawkins vocals and Dave on drums. I want Shifty up front and centre too (do it). I always want Pat - the epitome of state-side punk. And Mendel? Oh, I’m a bass player lover and the guy has hidden depths. He likes February Stars - left-field? Not at all. It has a killer baseline and a freaking firework display at the end. Give me Rami giving the band more layers. Give me more. Never stop. Ever. I just hope that by the time the next record comes out I won’t need any more writing inspiration! I want to be done, done, on to the next one. 

By the way, I can’t pick a favourite new Foo song, I love them all for different reasons, but ‘Run’ was a genius choice for first single as it covers everything a Foo Fighter fan might desire: pretty buildup, punk shouty bit, melodic release, and who in their right mind could refuse Dave’s invitation to run with him? Not me. Pulls on trainers.

Arlandria - 3. Rosemary

A Backstory

There were some mornings when, before she opened her eyes, Rosemary could sense Steve's presence even though she had not seen him in two years. She felt his warmth envelope her and an invisible connection would tug and pull at her until she surfaced from sleep. On mornings such as these, she would rather surrender to the memory of him than face the pain and bewilderment of his disappearance, which always lay just below the surface of everything. She told herself over and over that she was one day closer to seeing Steve again. 

But the day Rosemary’s baby was stung by a bee, was the day Rosemary gave up on Steve, the love of her life. The sound of her daughter's cries made her feel like someone had ripped Rosemary open, reached deep inside her and squeezed her vital organs. She had never felt such a visceral and excruciating pain.

Of course she'd fallen in love with her newborn the moment the midwife had placed Arlandria in her arms. Rosemary was delirious with pain and exhaustion, but mostly with the wonderment of the tiny pink thing that lay quietly at her breast, black eyes wide open, staring sagely back at her. What had been growing inside her as part of her very being for nine months, was now on the outside, unattached, an entity in her own right. Rosemary found this incomprehensible and trembled at her little baby's vulnerability, wanting to protect her fiercely, forevermore.

Rosemary held Arlandria close, torn between joy and despair. "It's just you and me for now sweet thing. But not forever, Daddy will find us, he is part of us."

There were times when Rosemary fought from sinking into a deep blue depression, however her saving grace was that she came innately well-equipped for motherhood, taking in her stride everything that having a newborn entails, including having her life turned upside down. Thankfully Arlandria was as easy as a newborn could be, she fussed when she was hungry but slept like an angel. This allowed Arlandria time to get on with her life designing jewellery from a workshop at the bottom of her garden, close to Hampstead Heath. She rented this and the adjoining basement flat from an eccentric widow, Dorothy - known as Dot, who in truth needed the company more than she needed the rent.

In the garden, under the bows of a giant horse chestnut tree, stood a sturdy World War II prefab which overlooked a row of mews buildings behind, housing more craft folk and artisans. The place where Rosemary felt most at home was within the hessian covered walls of the workshop. The light poured in from the North and the East and Rosemary drew sketches and made prototypes while Arlandria slept soundly in her Moses basket. Dot would make Rosemary builder's tea and sit with them. When she wasn't cooing over Arlandria, Dot played patience at a fold-away card table, pondering the game, tapping on the Waddington's cards with her immaculately manicured fingernails. Rosemary loved the sound of the tap-tapping and the crackling of ice in Dorothy's pink gin, always resting by the cards, regardless of the time of day.

Rosemary's talent for design had been spotted early during her very first show at Goldsmiths. She'd received commissions even before she'd finished college and delivered designs and pieces well before her graduation results arrived. She always was the lucky one and had been regularly commissioned by a buyer from Liberty since that first Goldsmith's show. This client alone allowed her the ability to employ a small workforce at the production stage and meant that she lived comfortably.

By the time Arlandria was four months old Rosemary had designed and made a ring that she planned to give her daughter once she was old enough to wear it. She wanted her to understand what the ring represented. It was made of two differing shades of gold entwined together to make the band that lead  seamlessly to the top of the ring where the hexagonal shapes of the stones from the Giant's Causeway were formed. It was on these slippery stones that Rosemary had met and fallen in love with Steve, Arlandria's father. At that time she had been travelling around Ireland gathering inspiration and ideas for a collection influenced by nature and celtic design. They started to talk about the surreal landscape and ended up wasting away a day together, walking side by side with their hands stuffed deep inside their pockets, each fearing that if they took them out they might high-dive into the other's arms. And what if the other didn't feel the same way?

It had been a whirlwind affair, both of them being swept along, recognising a connection that was stronger than a shared love of bands or books or political ideals. Their attraction was primitive and ardent and left them depleted of surplus energy to exert on anyone but themselves. They rode a wave of fervour for a couple of months, travelling the country around the coastline, and finally ending up in Dublin. 

Rosemary was tangled up in her love and desire and felt no need to return to London. They settled in the capital for a few months, Steve worked in bars and Rosemary found a workshop from which she fashioned mock ups and posted them back to Liberty and other clients for approval. She loved their domesticity and couldn't wait to run home to Steve, or until he fell through the door and into bed after a long shift. 

Eventually there was no option but to return back to London to honour work commitments and she was relieved and overjoyed when Steve suggested he move back with her.

Rosemary headed home first, and on the day of Steve's arrival, spent the time scrubbing the flat clean. 

"Good Lord Rosemary darling, who the hell are you expecting? Royalty?" Her hippy landlady and surrogate mother could not believe the sterile state of the place. Dorothy wrinkled her nose at the smell of disinfectant. "Really Rosie darling, I spent very good money on a professional deep clean before you took the place on, and I swear it's cleaner now than it was on the day you moved in!" Out of the pocket of her vintage 1970s wide-legged trousers she pulled out a packet of Player's Filterless along with an ebony cigarette holder. Dot fancied herself as Dorothy Parker. She lit up, wafting clouds of smoke about in the hope of covering the stench of Dettol. "He arrives at three-ish doesn't he?" Rosemary nodded, opening the garden door to let out the plumes of smoke. "Good. Plenty of time to tell me all about him." She eyed Rosemary conspiratorially. "Now then, what's he like between the sheets?"

Three o'clock came and went, as did four, five and six o'clock. Dorothy reluctantly returned upstairs, loathing having to leave Rosemary alone and upset. Rosemary sat on the sofa, rocking. What had happened to Steve? Her efforts to locate him had all drawn blanks. The airline would relinquish no passenger information at all, the hospitals had no one by his name, and all her old Dublin landlord could tell her was that Steve had packed-up, paid up and left no forwarding address. Mystified and distraught she cried herself to sleep. She cried all of the next day, in-between straining to hear the doorbell. 

The day after that she didn't wake up until the afternoon. The postman delivered and Rosemary's heart jumped into her mouth. She ran to the door and on the floor lay a letter addressed to her in Steve's handwriting. Rosemary went numb and she sank to the doormat, her ears ringing. Why had he written and not come to her? Not good. Not good. How had she read the situation so badly? They had shared so much and she felt it had been real, genuine, passionate. How could she have been so wrong? Suddenly her despair turned to anger and she didn't know whether to burn the letter or tear it open.

She tore it open.

Dear Rosemary

I can't explain why I can't come to you. Nor do I know when I'll be able to do so.

Rosemary - you're part of me. please pardon me.

I love you,

Steve

Rosemary didn't surface for four days and Dot could not bare to see her so low. She adored the girl who had woken a latent maternal instinct within her. She called her doctor to visit Rosemary at home and was unsurprised to hear he believed she was having anxiety attacks. He also suggested Dot go to the chemist, he couldn't be sure, but a pregnancy test would prove his suspicions one way or another. 

Together, with the help of their friends, and with a quiet hope that Steve would appear, Rosemary and Dot managed to get through the next seven months. Dot brought Rosemary and the new baby home, made sure all their friends knew about the birth and organised a naming party. Arlandria grew up fast,  bonny and bright and Rosemary saw Steve's features reflected in her every hour of the day. 

One morning while pushing Arandria in her buggy under the London plane trees that lined the fringes of the Heath, Rosemary was suddenly stunned into almost complete inaction by the inhuman sounding cries that burst from her toddler at an ear piercing volume. She could barely function and accepted a stranger's help to inspect the toddler. "I think I may have seen a bee or wasp fly away." said the kind woman. Together they inspected each of the chubby exposed limbs while trying to calm the child. Sure enough they found a welt on her thigh that seemed to swell before their eyes. Suddenly Arlandria stopped her screaming and went limp.

The Royal Free Hospital was some two hundred meters away and something in Rosemary clicked into place, she shook off the stupor that had almost paralysed her, and sprinted to A&E.

The NHS staff were efficient, evaluating the situation in a matter of moments and immediately administered medication for anaphylactic shock. Once Arlandria was made comfortable and Rosemary had also begun to recover from the trauma, the doctor calmly explained that it had been touch and go. Rosemary let the doctor's words sink in, knowing that both she and her girl would forever live in fear of another sting and the after affects. 

During the episode something inside Rosemary shifted and she realised she had to make a change in herself. No longer could she live on the tenuous hope of Steve's return, nor the longing of sharing whatever life threw at them together as a family unit. The dreaming had to end, she knew it was time to walk life's lonely road on her own. 

Rosemary and Dorothy will appear in Arlandria.

Foo Fighters songs: Dear Rosemary, Cold Day in the Sun, Still.

Arlandria - 2. Mark

Mark’s chiselled knees poked out from the rips in his washed-out skinny jeans, the tears and fraying led all the way up his thighs. Even though it was twilight, he moved up the High Street in his aviators checking out the women undetected as they spilled out of the tube station. The prominent Standard headline screamed fire and brimstone, but Mark didn’t notice. This was not due to his sunglasses, but because he had no interest in headlines. The Pussy Cat Lounge’s doorman Frank saw Mark making his way up the hill, walking to the rhythm of the beats banging through his headphones. When he arrived, the door was conveniently held open and Mark flashed Frank a smile of recently bleached pearly whites. Frank’s acknowledgement was reserved.

Mark didn’t know everyone, he just knew the ‘right’ people. So, even though he’d never seen her before and hadn’t introduced himself, he got to know her name within about a minute of having spotted her on the dance floor. He’d surreptitiously taken a photo on his phone and distributed it to his mates. Jake’s phone had pinged and as he was in the club too, he sauntered over to Mark, bumped fists with him and leant in to divulge the name right up close to Mark’s ear:

“Arlandria.”

Mark’s mind slipped away to a place in the country. He lay under a willow tree in the lush grass and warm dappled light. Arlandria lay with him. She sucked his thumb.

Mark snapped himself out of it.

Mark had looks, the kind that would catch a girl’s eye and make her forget what she was saying in mid-sentence. He wore his t-shirts tight to accentuate his pecs and biceps. His physique was one that, thanks to lucky genes, needed a minimum of physical attention, and a mind that retained only details that would get him where he wanted to go. Effort was alien to Mark.

Mark’s modelling career was successful, but it was also his perfected charm that got him places. He had honed a disarming friendliness that made strangers accept him quickly, treating him like they’d known him for years, happily lulled by a nagging familiarity. They couldn’t quite place him and didn’t remember seeing him on a billboard or in the pages of a magazine. If you were lucky enough to befriend him, he had a way of gathering you into his exclusive fold, making you feel wanted and special. There wasn’t a thing he couldn’t procure or a threshold he couldn’t pass. If a mate asked a favour, a favour was delivered, with bells on. All of these attributes contributed to his achieving all he wanted in life, always.

Mark scanned Arlandria up and down as she moved and swayed to the music. She had everything going for her and didn’t even know it, this in itself enhanced her standing with the opposite sex, same sex, anything with a heartbeat actually, and the ill-disguised longing on the faces of the other men and women on the floor only made Mark want her more.

Mark locked eyes with her, flashing his professional lightbulb grin, looked away at the floor for a beat, then looked back at her, this time smiling shyly. He could tell she hadn’t broken her gaze, hadn't even blinked, and she looked flushed.

Mark projected past the first couple of dates he’d have with her, past the first few encounters where he’d give her all he thought she wanted. He couldn’t wait for the moment he could stop calling her baby, for the time he would flip her over, pin her down and call her bitch.

Mark jumped off the barstool and made his way to the dance floor.

Foo Fighters song: For All The Cows 

Mark will be mentioned in Arlandria.
He may even make an appearance depending on how generous I feel. 

One thing’s for sure: he has a small part. 

Richard Curtis always writes a ‘Bernard’ into his films. The story goes that there was once a Bernard in his life whom he hated for whatever reason: Mark is my Bernard. This version is harsh and two dimensional and is entirely intentional. Each paragraph starts with his name, because it was always about Mark.

Should I give Mark a bigger part? Comments welcome. x C x 

Arlandria - 1. Gravy

Gravy liked to wear skirts. He didn’t wear them every day, but when he did he matched them with a pair of women’s thongs. He didn’t shave his legs as the upkeep was too time consuming, but he liked to paint his toenails weekly in every shade the spectrum offered, just as long as the tone complimented his lipstick.

On skirt days he’d kneel down between the legs of his girlfriend Lily as she sat on the edge of the bed. He watched her concentrating as she applied creamy crimson or matt black or nude gloss to his cushiony lips. She didn’t actually need to do this for him as he was more than capable of doing it himself, however it was a ritual they both enjoyed, ending with Gravy pressing both lips together, coquettishly merging them slightly, then quickly releasing, causing a seductive smack. He knew this sound made Lily lose her shit. They were often late for work.

This particular morning, he smacked his lips together and looked straight into Lily’s eyes, searching for a delicious spark, but her stare was vacant. He put it down to stress over the impending deadline she’d been working towards. He kissed her anyway, smearing her with fuschia, but his kiss was barely reciprocated. An alarm bell rang in him, he recognised the familiar rebuff, girls never stuck around for very long and, lets face it, Lily had lasted longer than most, to the point where he’d begun to feel a certain domestic comfort. He’d only ever felt that way once before. The thing was he was just too obscure and not even his success could help to hold a partner for long. It was obvious Lily’s tiny tell spelt the end of the relationship, how many time’s had he seen it? He lingered, staring at her but saying nothing. She replaced the lipstick lid firmly, with a certain finality, avoiding his gaze. He stood up and fondled a tress of her long dark hair, so similar in colour and length to his own. She’d been good fun, but they both knew neither was the other’s ‘one’. He knew fighting for her was useless. For a moment he felt her loss acutely, the impending loneliness creeping over his life like a thunderous cloud blotting out the stars in the darkness.

“One more time, for the last time?” He whispered softly.

She smiled, nodded sadly and tugged at his skirt. He’d have to be late again today.

Work was based in an old converted Porter bottling factory on the canal basin parallel to Platform One of Kings Cross Station. When Gravy had first started In-Deep Design the studio occupied one small rented corner of the block, he now owned the entire building. At first he’d commuted from his shared flat in Tufnell Park and the favourite part of the journey was the walk along the entire length of Platform One, up the ancient cobbled slip-way, onto York Way. Being a creature of habit, he always left home at roughly the same time and encountered the same people walking in the opposite direction. He made up names and imaginary lives for them. That’s where he had first noticed Arlandria. 

Nowadays the route had been closed off and after his spectacularly immodest success, his commute consisted of hopping along the road from the Home building, some one-hundred paces from In-Deep’s front door. Today he used those slow one-hundred steps to think about Lily. He forced a false relief to wash over him, he would only let Lily leave a temporary scar. 

He pushed open the large glass doors and walked up the low-ceilinged concrete incline, reaching the main reception where the ceiling opened up to a glass roof four floors above.

Nigel, the ancient handyman, was up a step ladder changing one of the many spot lights in the low ceiling that washed the sandblasted brick walls with fan shapes of creamy light.

“’s’up Nige?”

“What’s up?” replied Nigel in a thick North London accent from another era, “I’ll tell you what’s up Grave - you designed sixty-nine fucking light bulbs into this here reception area. Sixty-nine. And its still as dark your arsehole.”

Angie, the bottled blond receptionist, gave a stoner chuckle that made her bangles jangle. Gravy grinned at her. “Yeah, maybe Nige, but isn’t it a gorgeous arsehole?” he bent and lifted a corner of his skirt, turned on his heel swooshing the material up so Nigel caught the benefit of his arse cheeks and sky-blue thong. 

Nigel blew out and rolled his eyes to the heavens.

Gravy took the stairs to the mezzanine level two at a time, got in the glass lift and waved at Angie as he made his way up. 

Gravy will appear in Arlandria.

Foo Fighters Songs: Low. Lonely As You. February Stars.

Do you like Gravy? Comments welcome. x C x 

Love, Loss and Hampstead

I’m feeling an aching nostalgia for something I haven’t lost yet. It’s a weird thing indeed, but after some eleven years in our nest, perched on a branch off Heath Street, the time to move is creeping up on us. Our place isn’t tiny, but the family is growing up fast and we are literally bursting out of it like an overfilled popcorn machine spewing corn and butter everywhere. It’s a constant and infernal mess, and as hard as I try, I just can’t keep a lid on it.

My husband was born and grew up here, and I moved here in my teens from the middle of nowhere in Sussex. We met at the Old White Bear pub in the heady days of lock-ins and dancing on the bar. Our kids went to the same state primary school as their dad, a fabulously diverse and tight-knit place that nurtures strong community spirit. Also, my father had the temerity to die here last year. I don’t think I could feel more connected to a place.

When I first came to London there hadn’t been much of a choice as to where we'd move to as accommodation came with Dad’s job. At that time my folks had only the vaguest idea about the many areas and tribes in this vast capital, they’d heard the names, but didn’t really understand the difference between Kensington and Camden. It was only later that they realised we’d really fallen on our feet. The choice had been to either move to Hampstead or a place in Primrose Hill – another fantastic location we again realised later. My family took a walk on said Hill and on the Heath, and we all knew at once that it had to be Hampstead. It was the wild beauty of the Heath that won us over. Bill Oddie had something to do with it too – Dad was a lover of the dawn chorus, recording it in the countryside and listening back to it to unwind and he’d heard Bill did walks at sparrows fart o’clock. The flyer read ‘Please meet in the car park at 4:30am’. Who in their right mind would want to do this? It has to be said, Hampstead attracts the weird and the wonderful.

I haven’t always lived here, over the years I’ve spread the net mighty far, as far as, ooh, Belsize Park, Dartmouth Park and St Pancras. These places are also villages in their own right, comprised of tight communities and yet remaining at a civilised arm’s length. But its Hampstead that’s the magnet, and once I’ve waded away from it, it isn’t long before I get pulled back in again. There’s something intangibly attractive about the place which I think has remained the same over centuries. Maybe it’s the proximity to the Heath, maybe it’s the light. As I look up from the screen I can see the familiar clouds and Constable skies that have been captured forever in those many paintings, even through today’s chocking air pollution. It’s very pretty here, and another attraction is the general acceptance of the different, the tolerance of the opinionated, as well as the charm of the many ‘off-the-wallers’ that might elsewhere be considered odd.

Being from the generation that benefited from free education, we worked hard, played hard and made some wise (lucky) property investments. So in 2006 we just about afforded to return permanently to our home town. It wasn’t long before I was reminded of the first world problem I’d face having to answer the frequently asked question:

“So, where do you live?”

I used to always hesitate for a second before answering , being reluctant to just blurt out the name. Experience has proven that the answer will cause an inevitable raised eyebrow, visible or invisible. And there is usually another hesitation before the answer comes:

“Hampstead”.

Beat

“Oh.” Beat. “How lovely.”

And there it is, the perennial response laden heavy with judgement. And the sound of a label reading ‘I’m a dick’ being surreptitiously slapped on my back, like in an eighties high-school movie. Actually the label used to read ‘Lovey’ but shifted with the times and now reads ‘Snob’ or ‘Loaded’ or both. This marks the start of my herculean effort to prove just how ordinary I am. So I’ll slip into the conversation the fact that I was a full-time carer for five years, how I work only part-time now, am married to a freelancer, crippled with a mortgage, and no, I don’t buy at the local Farmer’s market. I really, REALLY can’t afford to, I can get a week’s worth of fruit and veg at Tescos for the price of a handful of ugly looking tomatoes and a freaking sickly combo of juiced beetroot and kale. I recently stopped caring about all of this. I really couldn’t give a flying wotsit what others think, life’s too short. This attitude is very Hampstead.

It was decades ago that the super wealthy cottoned onto the charm of Hampstead. Over the years the area once associated with artists, poets, beatniks and bohemians has become populated with bankers and the rich and famous. For a long while the great and the good rubbed shoulders with the quirky and the ordinary, and this was, and still is great, albeit to a lesser extent. Nowadays properties that were once divided into a number of flats housing several families, have been re-converted back to single units with basements added, as clearly these huge houses just aren’t big enough for the requisite cinema, or gym or pool even.

The blatant social cleansing happening here is abhorrent, namely the eviction of Camden Council residents from properties such as Oriel Court, soon to be honed into luxury flats; the eviction of nurses from the social housing in New End, again for luxury apartments; and the closing of the student halls at Hyelm on Heath Street to be replaced by a block of residences for the over 65s, but only for those that (yes you’ve guessed it) can afford the luxury price tag, so I won’t be ending my days there. 

I don’t like the word ‘luxury’ right now. This lesser mortal has been priced out of the market and cannot afford the ‘luxury’ of a little extra breadth for the family, and one more measly work room that would enable us to remain in the place we call home. Also the place we love is being eroded away by the loss of the diverse mix of people that contributes to making Hampstead a great place to live. I don’t  mind the wealthy ‘newcomers’, don’t get me wrong, but there should be room for all.  Besides it’s always fun to have something to laugh at, like the crazily expensive handbags or ludicrous muscle-cars being paraded in the high street – where the heck is he going to park that thing? In her huge handbag? Oh, of course, in his newly excavated underground car park – how stupid of me.

Of course I know I’m extremely privileged, and I also remind myself that the only constant in life is change, so you have to learn to be good at adapting. I also think that due to the awful events of this summer in London, the mood is one of keeping strong and bonded. Our personal predicament means diddly squat in the scheme of things. We’ll just have to move.

Loss makes you love harder. It’s a simple fact. So I’m walking around the village with the aforementioned feelings of nostalgia, sucking it all in and holding on like I’ve rediscovered a lost lover. I love the guy with the magaphone in Tescos who shouts that the sugar content in the doughnuts will addict and kill our kids.  I love the smell of joss sticks whafting down the high street at 8am from the newsagent at the tube. He burns them next to the Hampstead Village Voice display, it’s like a little shrine! I love the guy on the platform at Hampstead Heath station who dresses like Mick Fleetwood circa ‘Rumours’. I totally love the fact that although there is a film entitled ‘Hampstead’ being shown at the Everyman right now, I don’t know a single village resident who has bothered to go and see it. Only in this blessed place!