I like where I live. I’m in Zone One, I have a decent sized living room, I am a two minute walk away from the underground station, I have plenty of light around me, my surroundings are loud enough to have warranted a considerable rent-reduction and I’m only two tube stops away from Tuesday’s pub quiz. Modest but valuable considerations. Nevertheless, having recently repeatedly ventured beyond the East End, has begun to have the unpleasant effect of me liking home that little bit less every time I am forced to return. These particular feelings of vexation started with a brief excursion to Fulham last week Tuesday, got worse when Inga and I travelled to Notting Hill for the day on Friday and finally reached their zenith this afternoon during a trip to Chelsea with my grandparents.
Not unlike that baffling feeling of stepping off a self-contained plane into a warm Grecian blanket of hot air after having boarded only hours before in a wet, dark, cold England, journeying from East to West London is like exchanging one world for another. That the houses, shops, people, streets and cars would inevitably feel different in these areas is perhaps no more than to state the obvious. However, little did I think that they’d make me feel this different. Indeed, hobo may be the new boho, but I’d prefer cleanliness and a feeling vaguely resembling that of small-town security over trendy East End grime any day. Well, at least that’s how I feel following today’s temporary escape from dirt to pert – so not necessarily any day, but definitely on this day.
(Oma)
After less than two months of living only a stone’s throw away from the ‘oh so cool Shoreditch area and closer still to hipster’s paradise Brick Lane, I can confidently say that I’m over it. Been there, seen it – I’d like like to leave now please. Admittedly, my new affinity for these posher parts of the capital may have been somewhat furthered by the company, the nature of activity, and not leas of all, the quality of food with which I associated during today’s far too brief stay in Chelsea. Prior to our fascinating visit of the Saatchi Gallery then, my grandparents took me to lunch at Mess Gallery, part of the selfsame gallery as well as fellow inhabitant of the Duke of York’s tremendous HQ. Mess’s food was delicious, even if the service was average (an awful lot of things were being dropped) and the restaurant’s interior with its diverse mixture of magnificent art adorning the walls felt rather sophisticated (for want of a better word of course). I’m a student who ate Smoked Mackerel Rillette, Potted Shrimps, Smoked Salmon, Crème fraîche, Quails Egg & Sour Dough Bread from a white table cloth in Chelsea this afternoon. Wanting to leave Whitechapel in exchange for Knightsbridge or Fulham is the only next, logical step.
(The lunch that managed to throw me off track slightly..)
365 Days of Food 