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“Don’t worry about the phone. My mate will be coming up this week so can swing by your mum’s to get it. Meanwhile, you can use this.” M hands me an old brick of a mobile phone. It’s the kind of relic that doesn’t even allow for pictures, let alone have Internet access.
“Where did you get that from?” I laugh. “Even my mum has a newer version than that.”
“Funnily enough, I bought this for my mum but she never used it. To be honest with ya, it was even too old school for her. She wanted a smart phone so she can watch Bangla cooking tutorials on YouTube. So it’s been in my drawer all this time, which is lucky for you,” he says.
I guess I shouldn’t knock it. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that.
“Oh, before you go, let me sort something for you,” I say as I make the three-step journey from the open plan sitting area to the open plan kitchen. I guess I better get used to this. Space is scarce in London. Flats are small and stairs are a luxury we can’t afford right now. Still, it’s not like I need the extra steps. Ramadan is coming up, so that will take care of any extra poundage to shift.
I’m not exactly sure what I’m sorting for M. It’s not my kitchen. It belongs to M’s colleague, Greg, who is currently on sabbatical, which allowed us to rent the place at mates rates as a stopgap before we get somewhere of our own. I only got acquainted with it for the first time last night to get a glass of water when we arrived at 10.30pm. I’m not even sure if there’s any bread in the cupboard.
I open the fridge door, hoping and praying that there is something in there I can offer my new husband as a means of nourishment. It’s like being a student again. When I went to university at the age of 18 with nothing but a suitcase to my name, I was also faced with an empty fridge. Well, I say empty, but there were a few odd cans of lager that belonged to my new housemates (yep, I started uni life as the only brownie in the halls, too. Things changed once I left the dormitory and realised that there were some Asians on campus).
Greg, whom I am told vacated his apartment just a few days ago to head on his trek through South America, or somewhere, has thoughtfully left one UHT long life carton of milk and some orange juice, which also has a questionably long use-by-date. It’s super thoughtful of M’s colleague but not quite the foray into London life I’d imagined. Still, beggars and all that.
“Babe, don’t pour that for me,” says M as he sees me decant the juice into the (thankfully) clean tumbler glass. “I usually get a full breakfast at work. They’ve got a canteen.”
“Well, you can have this before you go, so you don’t feel dizzy en route,” I say, as I realise I’m turning into my mum.
“You mean on my 15 minute commute by foot?” M asks, laughing.
I laugh, too, though I feel a bit silly. I had a vision that on our first day in our own home (though it’s technically not ours), I’d make him breakfast before work. Yep, I thought I’d be that sort of wife. Sorry, feminists.
“You’re brilliant,” says M as he gulps down the juice. “Though this isn’t. I haven’t had the crappy long life stuff for years. I doubt many oranges went into this. I think we need to do a proper shop tonight. On that note, what will you eat?”
Good question.
Though we’ve only been married a few days, M can read my look of confusion.
“There’s a supermarket round the corner from here,” he says. “You basically go down Henriques Street. You know, the road that we came down last night before we took a right at the roundabout?”
I stare at him blankly.
“Or if you fancy a walk, you could go to Spitalfields market, which is about five minutes away.”
M proceeds to give me elaborate directions, which unfortunately are as clear as mud. Though he knows my confused face, I’m guessing my bemused expression hasn’t quite registered with him as he continues being a human satnav.
“I’ll figure something out,” I tell him.
“Are you sure? I can show you on the map now. Give me your phone,” M says, before remembering. “Oh, yeah. I don’t think the brick phone has Google Maps.”
A map would’ve been futile anyway as I’m more of a write directions down on a piece of paper kind of girl. My God, does that make me really old school? Have I been living at home for too long? Perhaps spending most of my free time with my parents has turned me into something of an anomaly in the world of tech, preferring pen and paper instructions over pixelated maps.
“It’s okay. It will give me a chance to explore the place.”
M sighs. “I feel bad leaving you on your first day here.”
“It’s fine. I’ll be starting work in a few days, anyway.” Plus, what’s the alternative? Being left behind with your family and cooking fish curry? I think but don’t say aloud.
“Actually, I’ll be back in a minute.” I run to the bathroom, the one in the hallway, furthest away from M’s ears, before he has a chance to ask why.
It’s the first time I’ve seen this bathroom as I’ve only used the en-suite alternative so far. It couldn’t be more different to the family bathroom I left behind. Instead of a discoloured shower curtain, a sleek glass splashguard is on standby to protect the floor from drips. While my mum favours Lino, this bathroom is floor to ceiling cream granite, speckled with dark brown and black splodges. It reminds me of the bathroom in our house in Bangladesh, where the dark blobs would provide a disguise for the many cockroaches that would come to play around the toilet at night. It was enough for me to control my rather weak bladder. Big sis said that’s how she trained her kids to stop needing wees after bedtime. One summer spent back home put paid to that.
I can hear M treading between the kitchen and the bedroom. I assume he’s scooping up his last bits to go to work. I’d do the same every morning at home. I’d almost always forget something... my car keys, my phone, my house keys, my laptop bag. Luckily, I had mum hovering behind me like a drone, running down a checklist of essentials. Could I expect M to do the same? Would he step into the role of executive assistant / life organiser / overbearing busybody? Probably not. It’s a bit of a stretch to expect my new husband to fill the shoes of my mum.
M’s continuous pacing and clinking of keys are serving as noisy reminders of his presence and giving me stage fright. It just feels a bit too soon for him to hear my trickling pee. I try to block out the noise, while contracting my pelvic floor muscles. I’m at risk of giving myself a urine infection.
The heavy fire door slams loudly and dramatically. It’s nothing like the UPVC one at home which shuts with two little twists of metal. This solid wood door makes its presence felt and, like some weird, symbolic juxtaposition, it makes M’s sudden absence all the more jarring.
That’s it. I’m on my own. In this new flat. In this new city.
Why didn’t he say goodbye?
In a cruel twist of fate, I now no longer need to pee. I’d have thought my husband’s departure would induce some movement. Not so.
With M gone, I get to appraise my new temporary home for the first time. It’s very... bright. Instead of mum’s renter’s Magnolia, it’s owner’s white. It’s minimal, too, and a far cry from my parents’ house, where every alcove and spare corner is utilised as storage. This two-bedroom flat, with its black, glistening granite worktops, sleek breakfast bar and black leather corner sofa, is pristine. I imagine it costs a bomb, being so central, despite not boasting many square feet.
My stomach groans. I guess I better do my first task of the day - eat something. I open the cupboards near the breakfast bar. They’re full of crockery. Well, at least we’ve got bowls and cups and saucers, even if there’s nothing to fill them with. I open every single cupboard in the kitchen. As I slam each one closed, my hopes of finding something, anything, to eat wither way. What was I expecting? It’s not a bed & breakfast. Greg isn’t hosting us. He wasn’t supposed to leave a care package full of jams and scones and fresh bread. Though that would have been nice.
Mercifully, the last cupboard offers a fragment of hope. In it, pushed to the very far corner, is a box of tea bags. Thank God for that. If I don’t have my morning brew, I get a serious caffeine withdrawal headache later in the day.
As the kettle brews, I head back to my temporary room to pull out a suitable first-day-in-the-city outfit from the small shelf in the cupboard I stuffed my belongings into. It’s times like this I realise how low maintenance I am. My social media feeds are flooded with pictures of walk-in wardrobes that other girls my age own. I currently don’t have a wardrobe, I occupy two shelves. I’ve not even brought all my clothes. But anyway, I know this isn’t forever. It’s just the start and, if I hadn’t already established this, I am not a chooser.
I forego the comfy salwar kameezes that are usually my home outfit, as I’ll have to head out for food. So jeans and a stripey blouse it is.
That’s weird. The kettle didn’t boil. The water pours out cold into the mug, as if it’d come straight from the tap. I refill the kettle and turn it on again. It hisses as though it’s empty. But I’ve put water in! What kind of weird shit is this? I check that it’s switched on at the socket, and then feel stupid for doing so as it so obviously is. Why else would it hiss? The kettle pings to say it’s done. This time nothing pours out. Should I try again? Best not because at this point I’m scared of breaking the damn thing. It’s ridiculous. I’ve only moved cities, not countries. Are the kettles in London that different?
I figure I have three options:
Call M for tea making instructions and risk sounding like a massive village bumpkin in these very early and delicate days of marriage where initial actions will form the foundation of our future judgements of each other.
Or
Text my fellow adopted Londoner, Julia, to ask about the kettle, thus feeling only marginally less of a bumpkin to my oldest friend rather than my brand-spanking new husband.
Or
Go old school Bengali-style and brew the tea in a pan on the cooker hob.
Given that I can’t figure out a simple electric appliance, I don’t trust myself using a gas cooker.
I think I’ll text Julia. Actually, how can I? I don’t have her number. I’ve got the brick hand-me-down phone that wasn’t even good enough for M’s mum. Come to think of it, I don’t even have my new husband’s number. What if I need him? What if I’m attacked when I’m outside? Okay, that’s a bit dramatic, but anything can happen and I have literally no one’s number except my landline. I mean mum’s landline. And despite being a helicopter mum, she couldn’t fly over from Manchester should I suffer a calamity. Bollocks, this is just great.
Then I remember that I actually remember Julia’s work number. As weird as that sounds, Julia has the simplest of landlines, it might as well be 12345. I only rang it a couple of desperate times and it’s lodged in my brain. Truthfully, she’s probably more likely to respond on there as she’s rubbish with text.
The phone rings. And rings. And rings. Of course Julia doesn’t reply. She’s a busy lawyer.
Oh well, I guess I’ll venture out into the big smoke un-caffeinated.
***
I feel like Gretel, of Hansel and Gretel fame, needing to leave crumbs behind so I don’t get lost. It’s funny, I’ve only really ever seen two sides to London. East London, where uncle Tariq lives and where we used to make annual trips as kids. The part of the city where you can’t move for Bengalis. And then there’s central London, where I was lucky enough to get the odd meeting with work. It’s the London I dreamt of. The part of the city that would have me gazing upwards as far as my neck would let me so I can take in the high-rise buildings in all their splendour.
Despite Liverpool Street being apparently central, the bit where we live seems to fall between being residential and cosmopolitan. The flat is on a cobbled street that wouldn’t look out of place on the set of Coronation Street. I walk past houses that don’t have front gardens and look like they’ve been converted to flats. There are various apartment blocks in different shades of grey and brown and a few greasy spoon cafes like you’d see on Eastenders. Not quite the glitter I was expecting but hey, I’m here. I can make this work.
It occurs to me that there’s not a lot to do by myself the entire day. I wish I’d texted Naila to let her know when I was coming. We might not be close but she is my cousin, after all. Plus, being a makeup artist, chances are she works odd hours. She’d have probably been free to meet.
After buying my breakfast and lunch from Sainsbury’s, I decide to wander about the place. It seems a little sad to go straight back to the empty, soulless flat. What does a girl do when she’s got the entire day to herself in London? Surely I should be having more fun? The highlight of my day can’t be getting my supermarket-bought pastry and meal deal?
I go past a rustic looking pizzeria, not dissimilar to the one I frequented many a time back in Manchester, with the name Antonio’s emblazoned in red across a green background. There’s even a red and white striped awning, just like my beloved Italian back home. The similarities don’t end there. The restaurant is giving off an inviting glow, courtesy of the golden lighting so common in such places. I think I even spot a fireplace inside. It’s practically calling me, willing me to go inside and embrace its warm glow.
That’s it. I’m going to do it. I’m going to grow a pair of balls and do what I assume Londoners do all the time. Eat alone in a restaurant and be fine with it. It’s 11.30am so totally appropriate to have lunch. I’ve always said it takes a really self-confident person to be able to sit by themselves and enjoy a meal, savouring every mouthful while watching the world go by. I saw a girl do this once, while Julia and I were at the next table sharing a bruschetta with a side of bitching about men. This girl didn’t even look at her phone for company. She sat sipping her cappuccino without a hint of self-consciousness. I want to be that girl. I think I’ll have to be that girl. She was like Carrie from Sex and the City. I, too, can be like Carrie from Sex and the City. Only I’ll be in London, not New York. And my outfit’s from Gap, not Versace. And I’m brown. Okay, so nothing like Carrie.
***
It turns out I’m in good company. Sat on the table next to me is another girl, likely my age and definitely alone. She’s already on her main, twirling her prawn linguine around her fork. If she had a date, she’s been stood up.
We exchange little smiles across from each other, mostly instigated by me. Then, as my pizza arrives (pizza always trumps pasta when eating out), she nods in admiration at my lunch.
This is my chance. I’m going to graduate from facial gestures to words.
“About time! Your pasta was making me hungry,” I say, before wondering whether my initiating a conversation was too keen.
Much to my relief, she replies: “It looks great,” in an Eastern European accent.
Okay, so we’re friends now.
“Do you come here often?” I sound like I’m chatting her up.
“No, it’s my first time. I have an audition in the area.”
Oh, tell me more, new friend, I think but obviously don’t say aloud. I’m friendly, not weird.
Luckily, this girl seems quite happy to strike up a conversation. I find out that, like me, she’s an adopted Londoner, having moved here from Poland six months ago. She works part-time as a receptionist but is also a budding theatre actress, taking auditions around her work. How very cool.
Speaking of cool, I then decide to do something I wouldn’t ordinarily dream of.
“Sorry... I’m struggling to hear you.” This is true as we’re having to raise our voices from our large respective tables that are meant for parties of four. However, I have an ulterior motive. “Would you mind if I joined you?”
“No! Of course not! Please do!” She removes her olive green leather bag from the chair next to her and puts it on the floor.
M will be so proud of me. I’ll have to tell mum, too, when I call her. I’d always regale her with stories of how I’d make a new friend on the train when travelling back and forth between home and university. Granted, they were fleeting friendships as our relationship would never progress beyond the journey. However, it was nice to know my social skills were on point.
It turns out that Lena is an old hand at eating alone in restaurants in random parts of London as she flits from one audition to another. Today, she’s going for the titular role in the Woman in Black, who appears in the final scene of the play shrouded in a black burqa-like ensemble.
“It’s not easy,” she tells me as she takes the last bite of her pasta. “Theatre pays nothing and London isn’t cheap. I live on top of a launderette in Tooting. But I love it, so I will continue for as long as I can.”
I guess I should be grateful having moved into a sleek, if sterile, flat.
Though a stranger, talking to Lena feels familiar, comfortable. She even hangs back, despite having finished her main, to speak a little longer.
As our respective bills arrive, I’m feeling emboldened.
“Well, if you’re ever around for another audition here, we could meet up. If you want my number?”
Oh, was that too soon? I can never gauge these things.
While I’m regretting my over eagerness, Lena takes her phone out of her bag. “Sounds good!”
As we exchange numbers, I notice a voicemail message. I’m hoping it’s M, so I can reply back saying something like: I’ve pulled.
It’s not M. It’s Julia.
“Hey! Welcome to London! And what are you like, leaving your phone at home! Anyway, if you’re up for it, I can meet you for lunch. It might be a late lunch for you, as it will be around 3ish. That’s the standard lunchtime in the sweatshop. Do you think you can come to Chancery Lane? Call me. I’ll give you directions and tell you which tube to get. Oh, and the kettle thingy, it sounds like a filter kettle. Wait a few minutes once you filled it up for the water to trickle-down. It’s a pain but totally necessary as London water is rancid.”
Ah... I see.
***
The old brick phone lets out a suitably old school ring as well as an indiscreet buzz in my bag as I walk to the tube station. M must have set the tone to extra loud for his mum, or at least I hope so. It would be embarrassing if it were for my benefit. I may be clumsy and forgetful but I’m not hard of hearing.
As I stop to get the phone out of my bag, a man in a pink shirt and tie brushes past me, knocking my shoulder. He doesn’t apologise or look back. Rude Londoner. I tut loudly but it’s pointless. He’s already on the escalators, moving very slowly underground as he’s stuck behind people who aren’t in as much of a hurry.
The phone is still ringing. I have a scary thought... who is calling? Who has this number? Could it be one of M’s nosey aunties? There were plenty of them from what I saw on my wedding day when we got back to M’s house for the obligatory show and tell (as in I show my face and they tell me which way to look for photos). With my dizzying hunger headache caused by being too nervous to eat at the wedding hall in front of 600 guests, all these homely aunties started to look the same, bonded in my mind by their willingness to break all cardinal first meeting rules by asking how old I am. Some even dared to query how M and I met. I remember how my mother-in-law giggled nervously before changing the subject to something much safer - gossip about someone else’s daughter. M’s mum, just like mine, wanted to maintain the facade that our marriage was very much arranged by the elders. Nobody needed to know different. It wasn’t just the questions from these aunties that were invasive, it was a day of violations. One nosey lady took it upon herself to open my suitcase to help find me a change of saree, only to recoil, red faced, when the first item of clothing to jump out at her was a pink and black silk slip. I mean, what did she think I was going to wear on my wedding night - thermals?
The phone continues its interminable ring, loud and eager. I better just put myself out of my misery. Worst case, I can hang up and blame a bad signal if it’s a shrill tone spitting out questions on the other end of the line.
“Hey, you okay?”
Thank God. It’s a voice that still gives me goosebumps, like it did in the early days of our courtship.
“Did you manage to find something decent to eat?” asks M.
“I did, actually, and I found someone to eat with.”
“Ooh, tell me more,” says M.
“I’ll fill you in later as I’m just about to get on a tube to meet Julia. You know, my old school friend that lives in London?”
“Check you out! One day in and two dates! What will you be like in a week?”
I’m basking in his praise, like the people pleaser I am. However, I must keep on track as I don’t want a flat battery while negotiating the London Underground.
“More importantly. What do you want for dinner tonight?” I ask.
“Anything. Let’s keep it easy. I was thinking maybe we could order in?”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind making something.” I am a Stepford Wife and I don’t deny it.
“Nah. Keep it easy, babe. No point even worrying about cooking until we’ve got our bearings here.”
I really have won the Bengali boy lottery. I note how he says “we” rather than “you” when he talks about cooking.
“Okay. While I’ve got you, can you text me your mum’s number?” I ask.
“What? My mum?” Given M’s surprise I wonder how many mums’ numbers he has.
“Yeah. I just thought I’d check in. You know, do the obligatory daughter-in-law thing.”
M laughs. “Yeah, sure.”
Best brush up on my Bengali.
As the phone rings, I’m having second thoughts. What if she interrogates me?
What will I say? What if she secretly has an issue with me living it up in London, rather than being at her house making curry?
It rings three times. Can I hang up now? Does that count as having tried?
“Hello...” says a croaky voice.
Too late, it’s happening.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Good. Good,” my mother-in-law replies. “You?”
“Yes. Good.”
There’s an awkward silence. Why can’t I be quick thinking and chat about anything in Bangla like I do in English?
“Just getting used to the new flat.” Scrambling for topics here.
“Ah. Is okay?”
“Yes, fine. It’s just... there’s no stairs and... erm... it’s smaller. It’s nice, though. I’m not complaining. We don’t need a big house or anything. It’s not like we’ve got kids!”
Why did I just say that? I usually find I’m a little out of my depth when speaking in Bangla to an elder but in this case, with my husband’s mother, I’m especially tongue-tied.
Another silence.
“What you do?” asks M’s mum.
“Er... I work in PR. It’s basically working with journalists to get stories in the media.” We’ve been down this road before, in an equally stilted past phone conversation.
“No, I say what you doing now?”
Oh dear. This just trumped our last conversation in the awkward stakes.
Instinctively, I feel the need to lie so as not to suggest I’m footloose and fancy-free, dining at leisure with different friends in London. “Oh, nothing much. Just popping out to get some food for later.”
“Ah.” Though I can’t see M’s mum, I can picture her ears pricking up. “What will you cook?”
Crap. I hadn’t thought the lie through. “Erm, if I can get hold of some chicken I’ll make a curry. I don’t know where the halal shops are yet.”
M’s mum does an impressed chuckle, which indicates I answered correctly.
“You find chicken no problem. In London there are lot of our people, so there be plenty of halal shops. I’m cooking fish today and a beef curry. It’s always better to cook by hand. Outside food no good.”
I guess that’s decided then. M’s takeaway idea is no longer on the cards. It’s probably for the best, anyway. I’ll earn brownie points as a wife and daughter-in-law.
***
“I think your wedding inspired some movement in my life,” says Julia as she takes a bite out of her 3.30pm panini.
“Really? How?”
“Miles has asked me to move in with him.” Julia looks pensive as she sips her takeaway latte.
That girl is never without her coffee. It’s like she is constantly needing to refuel herself. Being a solicitor in the city must be hard.
“That’s great, isn’t it?” I ask.
“I don’t know, is it?” Julia slams her paper cup down on the pigeon pooh spattered bench. “It’s just... you know how I am. You’re always joking that I’m more Bengali than you and I don’t deny I’m a bit old fashioned. It’s not that I was expecting a proposal so soon, it’s just that now he’s jumped to the next stage, what if the proposal never comes? What would you do?”
“You’re asking the wrong girl. I only know one way. The other was never an option.”
“I think you’re quite lucky in that respect. At least there’s a guarantee you’ll get married.”
I smile at her. It wasn’t so long ago she was feeling sorry for me with my backward Bangladeshi background.
Julia raises her hand, neatly manicured in a red sheen, to hide her laugh. “The irony, right?”
She knows me too well.
It’s surreal seeing Julia, my oldest friend, in my newest home. As we sit surrounded by pigeons taking turns to peck at the crumbs left over from many a busy lawyer’s lunch, it feels strange, comforting, familiar and yet so new. It’s like my old and new life colliding on a busy open market, while men and women rush past us, a sea of black and grey suits.
“Anyway, how are you? My newlywed friend?” Julia finally gets round to the bit I’ve been itching for, to talk about me.
“It’s not been a bad first day, to be fair. When M left, I didn’t know what I’d do with myself but here I am, with a loaded Oyster card and a £5 fill-your-own Tupperware box. With hot food and not just salad! And it’s halal!”
Yes, I had a second lunch. What of it?
“There are lots of halal options around here,” Julia informs me. “I’m always noticing that sign in the window. You know, the one that says it in Arabic, and it makes me think of you. You were always moaning about how there weren’t enough places in Manchester and that you were stuck with Indian buffets.”
“Not that a buffet was ever bad,” I say. “But it’s definitely nice to have more variety. Can you believe I’ve lived 27 years and this is the first time I’ve had a shop bought lasagna? I always had to make my own.”
“Speaking of eating out, we should organise a night out. It will be much easier now that -”
Julia stops. I imagine she was going to say something like: ‘Now that you’re not under lock and key living at your parents’ house.’ She knows exactly how things were. Dinner dates were non-existent, we’d always meet for lunch. I never went to the school discos or joined in any of the weekend shenanigans with my 14-year-old classmates, such as getting drunk in the park and getting off with whoever they fancied at the time.
“You know what I mean. I’m not suggesting a piss up at Mahiki, but maybe dinner or something? Or even a trip to the Shard? M is going to be chilled about you going out, isn’t he?”
It’s a point I hadn’t really considered. M, having lived alone in London away from his parents for the last few years, is more liberated than me. Courtesy of being a Bengali boy, he had much more freedom at home, too. However, though undoubtedly he’d be fine about me having a girly night out with Julia, I don’t know how I feel about it. I realise that’s totally weird and I should be glad to have the freedom and space, but I think years upon years of living a certain way is hard to shake off. It wasn’t just instilled in me that good Bengali girls don’t go out at night, there is also the safety factor of getting home at night alone. It’ll be even more of a thing here as I don’t have my car. Julia and I live in different parts of London. Would I be expected to make my own way home by tube late at night? Is that what people do here?
Julia is still searching my face for an answer. After convincing her that we Bengalis aren’t all backward and we can have a modern fairytale relationship just like the one she enjoys, I might be undoing all my hard work with one blank face.
“Oh yeah, he’s fine with all that,” I finally reply. “Dinner would be great. We can figure out the details later.”
“What else have you got planned today?” asks Julia.
“Nothing much. I’ll probably finish unpacking and sort something out for dinner,” I say. “On that note, do you know where I could get halal meat around here?”
“Here? Sorry, butchers aren’t really my forte. But if I was to hazard a guess...” Julia looks around at the many white and very few brown faces. “I’d say you won’t find anything here.”
“Chickpea curry it is, then.”
“Wow, look at you! A domestic goddess already! Though I knew you would be. I hope M knows how lucky he is.” Julia takes another sip of her coffee.
“I’m sure he does.”
I feel pretty lucky, too, I think to myself. Just the two of us. No interfering in-laws, no community expectation, no family politics. As the Bengali saying goes, when you marry the boy, you marry the entire family. So having potentially escaped all that - for now at least - makes me feel terribly grateful.
“Anyway, I’m so glad you’re here. You’ll just love London. The city is your oyster. Quite literally.” Julia laughs at her own pun. “You know, because of your Oyster travel card,” she adds, somewhat killing the joke.
“Yeah, I get it. And yes, it’s great. The few times I’ve taken the tube for work trips have always been fun. It’s like a labyrinth, an amazing labyrinth.” I’m still pinching myself that the city I’ve always loved is now my home.
Julia takes another slow sip from her cup. “Trust me, the novelty will soon wear off.”
***
I’m on cloud nine. I know that’s a bit much but I am smug as a bug that my first day in London, alone and without my trusty phone, wasn’t all that bad. I made a new friend, negotiated the maze that is the London Underground, and am now heading back to my new home with two tins of chickpeas, one tin of chopped tomatoes, an onion, some curry powder and a box of cupcakes that I bought from a cart outside Liverpool Street station.
I’m now thankful for mum’s black leather body bag that she insisted on giving me as I was packing like a headless chicken the day I left for London.
“It be useful,” she said. “Better than big, bulk bag when you outside. Less chance for someone steal your things.”
Mums do know best (though I won’t tell her that). The flat, cross-body bag has come in very handy as I travel up the steep escalators. However, my paper bags full of ingredients and cakes are a mild inconvenience, pissing off commuters as they knock their knees while racing past me with a huff.
As I get to the turnstiles, I’m extra smiley. I’m a seasoned Londoner now, all ready for action, brandishing my new, shiny, Oyster card wallet with confidence. But... wait a minute. The wallet is empty. Where’s my card?
A man in a grey suit is practically pressing into me, huffing as he tries to push me through the turnstile, as though I could squeeze between the gaps. The twat. Another huff, followed by a “bloody hell”.
Said miserable git, with a suit colour matching his demeanour, pushes into the queue of passengers at the next turnstile, much to their annoyance.
A lady with a small child mutters: “Cheeky sod, nothing’s that urgent.”
She then turns her attention to me. “You okay, love?”
A Londoner being polite?
“I think I’ve lost my Oyster card,” I say.
“Oh no! Just tell the guy over there, I’m sure he’ll let you through,” the lady says as she continues on her way with her mini-me.
Everyone is in such a rush here. In Manchester, even my mum could navigate buses with her bits of English because there was always someone on hand to help her if she got stuck. She could wholeheartedly rely on the kindness of strangers.
The station manager takes one look at my bewildered, flustered face and, perhaps through a sense of pity, allows me to pass through without my card.
“The thing is, I topped it up with £30 on the way here. Is there any way I’d be able to get my money back?”
“Is your card registered?” the manager asks.
“Registered?”
“Yeah. Online.”
“No, I just bought it today. I only moved to London last night.”
The man kisses his teeth. “Sorry dear. No chance. You only get a refund if you registered the card. Anyway, never mind. Welcome to London.”
And it was going so well.