What They Don't Tell You About Living in London

A lot of friends and family contact me saying they are living vicariously through my London adventures, particularly through my Facebook updates. Thing is, Facebook is a carefully edited medium which affords us an easy way to project how awesome we are, whilst we hide those not so fabulous aspects of our lives.

 

In the wise words of Sir Laurence Street (former Chief Justice of the NSW Supreme Court) from my days at law school - there are always two sides to the coin. For the record, Sir Street's was a 50 cent piece and at 80+ he flirted like he was Gosling with us 20-somethings.

I love you dearly and thank you for your support, but I say to you this – put down your smart phone and book yourself...wait, don't put the phone down...book yourself a ticket to that place you've always wanted to go…and then put the phone down. That's exactly what I did and is how I ended up here.

As I approach the nine month mark of life in London, something has also gestated - an inner rage. Before I go on, I do love my life in London and the happy times I promote (via Facebook), which certainly outweigh the frustratingly, annoying, inefficient, extortionate times. But they’re there, and daily I find myself in situations where I want to scream what the actual fuck?! Somedays I do...in public...mostly at rail employees. And I use the term ‘employee’ loosely as it implies that they do something productive and as it stands I am not convinced.

It is never far from my mind that I am one of hundreds of thousands of Aussies who have taken this right of passage to the UK, but at 32 I seem to be a late bloomer. I am beginning to wonder whether my age is impacting on my experience. Having been around the block a few more times than my younger antipodeans, it really grates me when I see things that are over complicated, inefficient and expensive and I know they don't have to be. So indulge me here and allow me to vent a few things that shit me to tears (bearing in mind this list is by no means exhaustive), and what no one warned me about London. 

Passiveness

People are passive, not necessarily aggressively, but I often experience resistance to engagement, initiative or responsibility.  I work within the public sector and not surprisingly I see these things a lot at work, but this most prevalent on public transport. Catching the train/tube during peak hour is best described as ‘intimate’. People seem to have a preference for being squashed together in the vestibule rather than move inside the carriage!

When this Aussie attempts to get on and politely requests my co-commuters to utilise that space behind them I receive looks like I've just asked them to insert a toilet brush somewhere unmentionable, brush head first. I did once get a verbal response; ‘there's no room’. ‘There right behind you oh wait here where I am now standing’, having pushed past her not so delicately. It really doesn't make for the best start to the day.

TV Licences 

I'm not going to bang on about this one too much because it blows my mind. Instead I want to skim over this to keep my levels of irritability down as I'm only at number 2.

In a nutshell there is no free to air television channels in the UK like there are in Australia. Instead you have to pay a licence fee of £145.50 (cheaper for black and white) each year. Apparently the fee funds the BBC.  For numerous reasons, which I won't go into here, I find this hard to swallow but I think I should point out that the BBC is a globally recognised brand and I suspect it's doing alright for itself. Incidental to my research I found reading that website amusing because I never knew there was so many ways to say ‘you're being ripped off!’

Public Transport

Original image by Arjen Stilklik via Flickr

A lot of people bang on about how great the transport links are in London. Hey, even I did at first. But there is nothing that wears me down more than the daily commute, and where I can, I walk. I shouldn't really call it public because the national rail service, which connects London with the surrounding home counties (one being Surrey where I currently reside) is run by several private operators. In my experience they couldn't care less or charge more, but then again prices have just increased.

I just paid £255 (around $460 AU) for a monthly ticket for a journey the equivalent of living in the outer western suburbs of Sydney. I wouldn't mind paying so much if it was a good service (I refer you to my Zurich piece), but it not. It's like waiting for that friend who doesn't give a crap about time and is either late or cancels last minute. This happens so often that train boards have the scheduled time and expected time. Sometimes they match, but it’s so rare it feels like you’ve won some kind of lottery when it does happen.

When in London, buses are my preferred mode of transport as they are cheaper and tend to be more reliable. But, is it really reasonable to assume that the destination you read on the front of the bus is ultimately where it will end up? Apparently not. ‘This bus is on diversion. Please wait for further announcements,’ has caught me a few times, usually in the post-midnight hours. It means that the bus will not be finishing the route and you need to get off at the next stop and wait for the next bus to come along, which doesn't always eventuate.

Wages Versus Cost of Living

I am lucky to be earning around what I was in Sydney, and I know how fortunate that makes me. Most people I know earn less than the equivalent to $50k (AU), which may sound okay but the basic costs of living London are expensive. A habit I am finding hard to let go of, but know I must, is converting prices of things into Aussie dollars. It's hard not to get annoyed when the shampoo I use here is £17 (I have a sensitive scalp) and would be $17 in Australia. This has made me realise how ridiculous the concept of money really is.

The Weather

Actually, no, I’m not going to bitch and moan about the weather. Not only because I can't say I wasn’t warned, but because I actually love the cold. In fact, I could whinge that it's not cold enough, but I'll let that go for now as apparently it's been unseasonably warm this year. Either that or it’s my piping hot temper that's taken the edge off.

-Eliza Rose Harper

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Still Kinky

You have been warned - this story is about going to a kinky sex party and contains swears. If you think this will make you want to send us angry emails then best you not continue and read this, this, or this instead.

Missed Part I? Read it here first.

We do a quick change in the unisex toilets, which consist of one cubical and three urinals (are you for reals?!). We swap suits and adorn them with [insert name of pharma-cum-beauty retailer who we really, really hope does not sell products that are tested on animals] logos, and accessorise with bunny ears and noses.  A dude wearing green trousers and applying orange body paint to his top half turns and says ‘I don’t get it’ in a voice that sounds like he’s borrowed it from a hipster. Yeah, well, right back at ya buddy!

Entourage: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0387199/

Once inside the actual party it is immediately apparent that there is nothing to worry about. The place is packed, but the vibe is good. To give you some kind of visual context, imagine what it might be like if you were in a room with all of Lady Gaga’s friends, all in full costume…but they're nice.  Everyone has dressed up. There's lots of silver, and lab coats over suspenders, and there is a widespread Breaking Bad influence. But given I’m extremely paranoid about appearing as a voyeur I do my best not to look at anything, let alone anyone, for too long.

We lost No.2 during the change and DJ Tyler Durden needs to do his networking thing, so I head to the bar. I wait patiently, but some guy in a dentist jacket pushes in. ‘Dude I’m a giant friggin bunny, don’t play the ‘oh I didn’t see you there’ card’, I want to say, but before I can get my defensive bitch on, I am fortunately (or unfortunately as it turns out) interrupted by a stranger in a space suit.

‘So you’re an experimental bunny?’ raising an eyebrow.

‘Indeed I am’. Fuck! Why is flirting my nervous default position?

‘And does bunny like to experiment?’ Fuck! Fuck! Fuck-ety! Fuck! Why didn’t I go to that fucking consent workshop! How the heck do I say no?

It’s obvious that I’m still a bit apprehensive. If I was anywhere else I would tell him to piss off but because this place has such an emphasis on consent, I feel obliged to be respectful in my rejection…you know like we all should, really, always.

‘Ummmm, bunny likes a scratch’ I said as I scratched my left shoulder awkwardly with my left hand. It’s the best I could come up with on such short notice. The onesie was itchy, but more importantly why was bunny talking in the third person all of a sudden? Thankfully I spot my bunny-in-crime nearby and hop in his general direction. He has witnessed the awkward exchange at the bar and we decide that if asked again, we’re going to say that we’re plushies (Google it, or don’t), and hope that works as a decoy.   

At 11pm the cabaret begins featuring a cheeky compere, a lesbian comedian (literally all her jokes were about her being a lesbian, all of them) and a lizard inspired burlesque dancer. The removal of her g-banger is apparently the cue that the Playroom is open for business. Ever been out somewhere that there’s a couple in the corner getting it on and you just want to yell ‘get a room’? Well this place has one.

We head outside for air - the onesies are hot! When we return. the dance floor that was packed to the rafters minutes before is now half empty. Ah. The Playroom. We have a dance, but the music is not really grabbing us. And with that our night becomes a pattern of outside, bar, give the dance floor a go, rewind, and restart.

Each time we walk outside we pass the thick black curtain that cordons off the Playroom the heat emanating from it seems to intensify. There is a woman outside who I would conservatively estimate is a size 20. She’s wearing a leather skirt. I’ll repeat; she’s wearing a leather skirt (nothing else). It’s held up by a clasp looped around her neck and is carrying a taxidermy tool. Instantly taking a liking to my rabbit self, she clips her tool into the zip of my onesie and draws down. ‘Yeah that’ll do’ I say when she gets to around my belly button, not because I think I’m about to become her stuffed bunny fantasy, but because I’m actually wearing the least sexy underwear I own and this is really not the place for me to be flashing my sensibles. 

Back inside, the dance floor continues to be empty, which is disappointing for those that actually want to dance…vertically, or those who are out of options on their horizontal dance card. Thank gawd when 2:30am rolls around and I can finally get my proper dance on. Unfortunately this means I have lost my dancing partner to the decks and as No.2 hates drum and base I regularly lose him to nicotine.  Fuck it! I dance my tail off…literally, as the safety pin that is holding my tail together gives way.

Throughout all this, I realised a few things about myself. First, I am really not bothered by people having their tits or bits out. In fact, I hardly noticed it and despite the initial self induced awkwardness, I didn’t experience the where do I look dilemma. Brilliant! A sign I’ve matured. Second, I can’t help but think ‘does having sex really require this much effort? Is it so lame playing at home with your partner that you need this whole shin dig with 300 other people? And if you don’t have a partner, is it that hard to pull?’ That said, I don’t think that’s actually the point here.

Perhaps it’s my age,  perhaps it’s my Virgo rising, but when it comes to bumping uglies I adopt the ‘fresh is best' policy and I can’t think of a better mood killer than a pre-heated post-coital cushion, that is still warm from someone else’s (and then some) body. I am also most definitely a monogamist, and I don’t like to share. Thankfully neither does DJ Tyler Durden. He’s an only child.

While there is sexual mayhem happening all around, neither of us feels the need to mack on in the middle of the dance floor, nor do we need to explore whether we are actually plushies after all. I did however, feel we connected on level that is beyond anything physical, sexual or even emotional. That night it became very apparent that we share a simple and unspoken connection, that we’re very much on the same page, we can communicate with just a look, and have a lot of fun with each other, in whatever form that may look like. And that, ladies and gentlemen, I have on good authority, is way more wicked than being tied up, smacked, poked, stroked or wheelbarrowed (Google it, or don’t, but if you do, in your own time and not at work) in public.                      

Having said all that, I also get it. Totally. It’s not that I lack sexual desires or fantasies, it’s just I don’t need to explore it in that forum…well not at this point in time anyway. Just because it’s not my thing, does not mean it is not someone else’s. It’s an exhibitionist’s dream, and it is obviously very liberating. Some people just like to dance around naked and this setting gives them the ability to do that without the threat of being groped or worse.

In a world where no is too easily ignored, and attitudes of she was asking for it are apparently the norm, this experience was extremely refreshing and precious.  What I loved most was how safe I felt in an environment where anything goes. It does not matter your size, your age (as long as you’re over 18), your preference, fetish or fantasy. The freedom to express yourself is celebrated, without the fear of judgment or the menacing presence of predatory creeps. It also highlights for me how mainstream media distorts the characteristics of sexual expression. I cringe to think that there are men and women alike that have modeled their own explorations after Samantha Jones's. And no, it wasn’t a room of Christian Grey’s either.     

All of that said, I’m not going to lie, this was the first time I had heard DJ Tyler Durden deejay live, having missed him over the festival season, so experiencing him create something I was really enjoying had me, funnily enough, wanting to go for it, as they say, like rabbits. But in the moment I was also really enjoying being in my own little dance world and feeling the freedom to dance as if no one was watching. Bliss. We could save the rest for when we got home.

So will I go to the next one? Well Mum, the jury is still out but I would certainly encourage others to go because it is an unforgettable experience, and hey I didn’t even have any sexy time! And that’s the key, neither do you. But if you’re going to head along to a kinky party, here are my tips for not just surviving, but having a great time:

* Keep your mind open.

* Know that opening your mind does not mean you need to open your legs. You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to.

* Get into the spirit. Dressing up can really help you get out of your own head; it shakes things up and helps you get into the groove with everyone else. 

* Don’t get too intoxicated, that’s no fun for anybody. 

* Take someone you trust with you.

* Remember to laugh and just have fun.

* Don’t be shy, talk to people, they won’t bite – unless, of course, you want them to. 

* Know your boundaries and respect those of others.

* Basically, follow the fucking rules!

-Eliza Rose Harper

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