Tag Archives: London

Sunshine, bottoms & cake

Posted on August 23, 2011 | 3 Comments

My friend Suki is excitedly showing me around her new poo shop. They are installing the pipes and tubes for her colonic clinic.

‘It’s lovely,’ I say – I mean what can you say when shown a speculum and some white tiles?

But I’m more interested in the downstairs – a new juice bar / shop / organic health store emporium. The exciting thing is it’s about a minute’s walk from my house so potentially this could become the sixth place on my list of frequented locales.

‘But tell me it’s not just going to be healthy shit is it? Are they going to sell Coffee? And cake? Because I need coffee and cake.’

‘I’ll pass that on,’ Suki says.

‘You do that. Tell them if they sell coffee – good coffee mind – and cake – good cake mind, then I will be their most loyal customer.’

I think she thinks she’s lost hope with converting me to a healthy lifestyle.

Having said that since being back I’ve already accrued a pile of young coconuts, a kilo of organic salad, a sack of raw cacao beans that I’ve been grinding up and sprinkling in my banana milkshakes and over my RAW porridge (get me) and a bag of Maca powder – apparently a superfood that will make me smarter, healthier, more beautiful and less hormonal. We’ll see. I find Vodka also achieves this same end and tastes better.

Being back is just blissful. I mean seriously blissful. Mainly because Kadek is back in my life. I am a lazy spoilt foreigner. Label away. I don’t care. It frees up my time for writing. And writing makes me happy and writing makes me money which allows me to employ local people who have no other income…ok, justification over in case there are those of you who take mortal offence at us having a house keeper (I know you’re out there)…don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. There’s fresh papaya in the fridge. I don’t have to wash up. My laundry is dropped in the pile and then miraculously finds its way folded back into my wardrobe a day later smelling of sunshine.

Talking of which SUNSHINE…that’s how you feel. I have missed you. Let’s get reacquainted – what later today? At the pool? Perfect! See you then.

London I loved you. Friends I miss you. But this life, this life is what it’s all about.

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The London Riots

Posted on August 11, 2011 | 3 Comments

I’m a Londoner. I will always be a Londoner. My grandfather grew up on the Old Kent road. My mum was born on the Peabody estate in Pimlico. I spent a lot of time as a kid staring out the window of my grandmother’s flat over at Battersea Power Station never understanding the optical illusion which meant I could only see three of the four towers.  I walk these streets weaving in and out of tourists, on autopilot, pointing out landmarks to Lula where I used to work (I temped A LOT) and the places I got fired from. I cross the roads to avoid places I kissed people I shouldn’t, I smile as I stroll past bars, restaurants, museums and shops – scenes of first dates, first sightings, drunken birthdays and my first pair of knee high boots.  It’s in my heart. London will always be my city no matter where I live.

Which is why this city also has the power to break my heart.

I worked for almost ten years in the area of social inclusion – creating and running projects (with the help of amazingly talented committed staff and volunteers) that supported people who were socially excluded to feel more connected to the communities that make up this city and other cities around the country.

Then I watched the riots play out across the UK and wondered what difference any of it had made. There are too many conflicting thoughts at play in my mind and in the minds of everyone I talk to right now. I feel a mix of shame, embarrassment and anger. I also feel huge sadness at the divides that have ripped our communities apart, the dangerous and widening wealth gap , the lack of respect and pride others, especially the young, seem to have for this city and the awesome people who live here.

In the days that followed the riots, people piled onto the streets with brooms to clear up the mess. I actually cried at pictures of people pouring tea for riot police, at those forced to defend their own property, at children who swept away broken glass in front of shops smashed up in their streets. It gave me hope and it restored my pride and faith in this city. Up to a point – show me a picture of Boris Johnson or David Cameron right now and I’d happily tear it to shreds. I’m also frankly appalled by some of the racist, right wing rhetoric appearing on Facebook and Twitter, often coming from people I know.

We’re leaving London in 10 days. Walking away from London at this point feels strange. I feel like I’m deserting my city, throwing my hands up and walking away in despair whilst shaking my head. I feel like I should stay and be part of something that I hope develops from this – a greater sense of community and pride in our homes. And two years ago, working in the volunteering sector I would have felt a huge rush of energy at the potential that could come from such a hideous chain of events. Unfortunately, Cameron in all his wisdom has dismantled most of the voluntary sector that could have been harnessed to transform the will on the streets right now into long-lasting action. Shame on him.

Having said that I can’t wait to get back to Bali. Perhaps because it’s smaller there the ex-pat community relies on itself rather like a tribe for support. It’s that sense of community that we never properly felt when living here (despite the fact I worked on community projects) that we have found in Ubud, and which I hope London begins to find again.

Whatever happens I wait with baited breath. I want to bring Lula back every year and walk her through these streets pointing out the places where her great grandparents house was bombed out and where they rebuilt it. I want to show her where her nana went to school,  and where I first kissed her father. I want to show her  the city that I love so much. I want her to grow up feeling like she’s a Londoner and feeling pride in this city and her heritage.

And right now I feel like it could go either way.

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Don’t wake me

Posted on July 17, 2011 | 3 Comments

My first book Hunting Lila comes out in just over two weeks’ time, and joy, it’s getting rave reviews and will be on the 3 for 2 tables in Smiths and Waterstones throughout August.

It’s been a long journey and if you were with me from the start of can we live here you’ll know how I only first started writing when we decided to leave the UK because I couldn’t think of any other idea for how to make money. And thank God I didn’t google how much writers actually earn. But anyway fast forward 18 months and I actually have not one, but THREE books coming out in the next year.

ahahahahahahahahaha

There’s a line in Lila where she thinks that maybe she’s lying on a pavement in south east London comatose because she can’t believe the reality of her life and that’s pretty much how I feel every single day. I walk around grinning like a simpleton. (When you do this it’s surprising how many men smile back at you). I also drink a lot of wine because a) in Indonesia there isn’t any (or none that I can afford) and b) I feel I have an excuse to celebrate every minute of the day. I also buy a lot of things (more on this later) kidding myself that one day I’m going to be rich and will be able to afford to pay it off.

Ahhahahahahahahaahaha (that’s my publisher and every other writer in the universe bar JK Rowling and Stephanie Meyer and Stephen King laughing at my naivete).

For the last two weeks in London I’ve been meeting my agent and my publisher for posh lunches, I’ve been editing my second book, and I’ve been working hard on promoting Hunting Lila (in between shopping of course) – there’s a blog tour starting on the 1st August and I am stalking the heck out of readers on Goodreads (I figure if I friend them all they might feel more inclined to give me a nicer review – cunning huh?). My favourite question so far in the interviews: How has your life changed since getting a book deal?

The funny thing is, I realised that my life wouldn’t be that much different to how it is now – ok fewer wining and dinings probably, but we’d still be in Bali. And I think that’s a really cool thing. My writing didn’t create the lifestyle. The lifestyle created the writing. (Ok and also John paying for everything at the moment is sustaining the lifestyle – thank you thank you amazing husband).

But the really exciting news, well second after the news that I have bought the most stupendous Vivienne Westwood dress and killer shoes for the launch, is that a ten year friendship with someone I met at uni has evolved into lunch at the Ivy Club (Daaaaaarling) and an offer to option Hunting Lila by an independent production company.

It’s early days of course and I’m naturally circumspect about stuff like that, though I am going to be wearing Westwood to the premiere and have written the clause to go in the contract which gives me the right to sit on the casting couch and test drive the male actors…but as I said, I’m totally circumspect…

If I am actually lying in a coma on a street in south London somewhere, please don’t bother waking me up.

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Stress & Worry & Anorexic celebs

Posted on July 6, 2011 | Leave a comment

I worry about more stuff here.  I stress more about silly inconsequential things. I have to think more – What time train? What shoes? Umbrella? Where’s my oyster card? Can I really afford this second Frappacino? Who are all these people in Heat? Why are they still doing up the same escalator on the Victoria line that they were last time I was here – surely it can’t take 18 months? (fact: yes it can).

It’s mentally exhausting. I feel like a character from a Bronte novel, and not the heroine but her annoying great aunt who’s always needing the smelling salts and having an attack of the vapours.

Whilst I’m enjoying the walks along the southbank, wine, catching up with friends and family, going to the cinema (sugar popcorn!), m&s undies, I am craving a return to my simpler life in Bali. There’s less choice, less media to get absorbed into, no tv and no glossy mags, no fashion and no fashion choices to be dictated by the weather. Overall I’m calmer there, and happier. I find gratitude all the time and with that comes a kind of peace I think it’s practically impossible to achieve living and working in a city. It’s hard to feel anything but tired and stressed when you’re faced with four hour train journeys, drunken people swaying into you on the pavement and constant exposure to the following two headlines: ‘ANOREXIC CELEBRITIES’ and ‘AMAZING: Kate wore an Issa dress on the eighth day of her Canada trip.’

 

 

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Sarah v.2.0 has been corrupted. Needs a re-boot.

Posted on June 29, 2011 | 3 Comments

One lightning strike.

4 hours, 5 trains, 6 platform changes and a lost driver later I make it home.

It was a welcome reminder of why we’ve left. Another nail in the coffin of ‘NEVER COMING BACK TO THE UK’. The smile of smugness I’d worn as I skipped around London past all the suited workers scurrying out of office blocks I used to frequent was coming loose by the time I trudged through the front door.

Within less than three days my Bali Zen has faded. I even called someone a dickwad on the train. Where did that come from? I haven’t used that word since I was about 16. It just erupted out of me. Luckily he was wearing headphones. Sarah v2.0 (Ubud Sarah) seems to have been corrupted by the virus that is London. She’s fighting to not become obsolete.

But he did smack me up the head with his bag. Dickwad.

London spawns rage. It explains the misery on the streets, the aggression, the stress in the swearing, shoving commuters.

I want to incite a revolt. People, this is not fun. This is not the way it needs to be.

I say this to the wishful thinkers amongst you, I know you’re there because you email me a lot, to those of you verging on the cusp of wanting to break out, those of you who think that maybe there is another life that doesn’t include a commute on Southern trains. Well, guess what? There is! I want to become an evangelist for another way of living, for a life of watermelon and sunshine and happiness.

Believe me. This is not the way it needs to be.

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Back in the UK

Posted on June 27, 2011 | 1 Comment

Bird song Cool air South east accents (lots of fucking this fucking that) Pints of beer Kettle chips Roast lamb Strawberries and raspberries Croquet Beer bellies Bad fashion (I’m in the provinces) It’s light still at 7pm! Aggression Wine wine wine Goat’s cheese An English country garden complete with roses and um, I don’t know the name of any flowers but is there anything more beautiful than an English country garden? Other than possibly Ubud Botanical Garden after a pizza. A stack of shiny new books A duvet Carpet The Sunday papers Charity shopping Pavements you can scooter down (and not have to call sidewalks so people understand what you’re talking about) Smooth roads Hello magazine royal wedding supplement Washing up (sucks) Fish & Chips Grazia Magazine The proliferation of floral playsuits and soft white flesh

I do like being back in the UK. It’s a bit like living in a Larkin poem.

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The 9-5 encroaches on the dream

Posted on May 19, 2011 | 8 Comments

For those of you who’ve followed us since the beginning you’ll remember that our reasons for leaving the UK were numerous. We wrote these reasons on post-its and stuck them on the wall of our bedroom in south east London before we decided to up stix and get the hell out of dodge. The reasons included: spend more time with Alula, be healthy, swim everyday, no commute, no working 9-5 ever again, live a 4 hour work week and of course, HOT SUN.

Hence Bali. Hence the fact that can we live here turned into, hell yes we can live here and then into oh, look we are living here (I just didn’t want to buy all those different URLs).

We’re lucky, I managed to get a really good book deal whilst we were still travelling and John being the super talented designer that he is hustled his butt off in Singapore, set up his own company and has not stopped working since. We both work pretty much full time (so much for the ‘work a four hour week’ post-it – but we both love our jobs so that’s cool) and admittedly I work beside the pool a lot. And I can stop to watch episodes of Buffy and / or decide that I need a three week break by the sea to recharge my brain whenever I like. We’re lucky and we’re oh so grateful for the way life has panned out.

Up until now John’s been spending about 2 days a week in Singapore but now he’s been offered a job at probably the best design company in the world.  A permanent job that is.

Excuse me whilst I tear up the post-its which said ‘no 9-5’ and ‘no commute.’

Now to me, the idea of ever working again for anyone else sends me into such a panic that my throat closes over in much the same way it does when someone with a peanut allergy eats a snickers bar.

Recently I did my birth chart and discovered that I should never, ever work for anyone because ‘I don’t respond well to being managed.’

If only I’d known that ten years ago. Could have saved a lot of my ex bosses a lot of heartache and stress.

But no point looking back. And thank God I’ve discovered a way of working that doesn’t involve a boss. I mean I have an editor but it doesn’t feel like she’s my boss. It feels like she’s Willy Wonka and she’s giving me the keys to the chocolate factory of my dreams (no oompah loompahs on my factory line, only clones of Alex Skarsgard naked swimming in the chocolate lake…sorry I digress).

Anyway for John this role is like gold dust. It’s a career high, a once in a lifetime offer that will really open doors– potentially to places we might want to move at some point (sagittarius remember?).  But as I write this my bottom lip is sliding up and out. I’m pouting I realize, in a way that even Alula would be envious of.

We’ve come this far just to slip back into a similar routine to the one we had in London only replacing Starbucks with coconuts and south eastern trains with Air Asia. And replacing the child minder with well, um, me. Hang on. This doesn’t feel right.

Ok, so the childcare thing isn’t so bad, especially as Kadek is there to make pancakes. We can hang out at the pool as opposed to Croydon Rec, and there’s no waiting around for trains at London Bridge panicking at whether I’ll make it back in time to pick Alula up. But what does this mean for us if John takes the job?

What does it mean for our relationship? For my sanity as a part time single mother? For Alula? What does it mean for our dream? We haven’t compromised on anything thus far, other than not living in the same time zone as fashion, I’m not sure I want to start now.

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Admiring the view

Posted on April 18, 2011 | 3 Comments

We’ve had friends staying the last week. Sorry to neglect you. Here’s a quick catch up. I have started and written 30,000 words of my new book. I’ve been dragged rafting along the Ayung River – about as much fun as being shoved inside a carrier bag and thrown repeatedly against rocks. I’ve butterfly stitched Alula’s chin (not from the rafting, she was pretending to be a dog), I’ve had two massages and a pedicure and been to the beach for the weekend. I’ve turned down an offer of climbing mount Batur at 2.30am. I’ve ecstatic danced.

Anyway, friends staying is always quite amusing because it let’s me see my life through their eyes. It reminds me all over again how amazing the place I live is. It reminds me to not be complacent. Their gasps when they walk into our garden and catch the view, then the second gasp when they come onto the balcony make me smile every time.

One friend arrived from Mumbai and in twenty four hours I showed him everything I loved most about living in Ubud. I took him to Clear for a chocolate Matrix, we ordered enough Sushi to feed the five thousand, we drank frozen margaritas, we danced ecstatically, we went to Sang Spa for a massage, we ordered salad from Sari Organic delivered to the door and drank coconuts. Yes, it’s true most of my favourite experiences involve food and drink and dancing.

My bro in law arrived for a holiday last week too. He was our biggest supporter when we first decided to pack up and leave London. He runs Careershifters so he’s driven by the aim to help people find the career and life they love. He says we’re one of their best stories.  We broke out of the routine and found a way of making our life work.

And when I look out my window, lying on my bed, watching an episode of Buffy (he’d never seen Buffy before so I had to rectify this issue), and drinking a g&t because 2.54pm counts as g&t o’clock in the tropics, I realize how right he is. This is a better story than one I could ever have written.

On a Monday morning in London we’d be crawling out of bed, running frantically to get Alula to the childminder and make it into work. And yet here I am (see paragraph above).

‘It’s pretty amazing,’ Rich says sipping his g&t.

‘Yeah,’ I agree, and we go back to admiring the view.

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I’m officially official

Posted on April 11, 2011 | 10 Comments

So here it is. My official website people, courtesy of my lovely husband. It’s still in beta but I’m just too excited to wait (wait? what’s that?) and had to share it with you all.

Please spend time perusing the fantasy cast list. I spent many hundreds of hours living this fantasy. It’s only fair that I should share it with you. Though boys (are there any boys out there reading this?) you might find it less interesting. I did throw you one bone in the shape of that blonde chick from Gossip Girl. But girls, don’t worry, she doesn’t get the man.

I got my first review on goodreads as well. From a bookseller at Waterstones no less. And it was five stars. And I didn’t have to pay her. Thank you Thank you.

On another note, my book launch is on August 4th in London so if any of you lovely blog readers want an invite just let me know. Would love to see you / meet you / share a glass of wine with you.

 

 

 

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Evil and karma in Bali

Posted on November 30, 2010 | Leave a comment

Today I introduced a Western evil to the civilised land of Bali. I feel like a Spaniard bringing smallpox to the New World.

Except I brought Road Rage and not a disease that will decimate the population. Unless of course everyone starts driving each other off the roads and into the drainage ditches – which because no one wears helmets would probably result in a higher mortality rate than even smallpox.

Now there are now two new evils in town. Starbucks and road rage. And I’m rightfully ashamed of myself for introducing the latter.

You see the Balinese don’t honk their horns in aggression. They don’t swear or gesticulate or yell at other cars or bikes. They honk only as a warning.

Arguably, by honking my horn repeatedly I was warning the moron in front that I was prepared to rear end him if he didn’t put his car in gear, stop curb crawling along the main road and step on it.

What would one more dent in our bodywork matter after all? Our car already looks like it was shaped by satan’s hammer in the forges of hell.

When the idiot driving the car in front figured that  I meant business he pulled over and I glared at him as I passed. ‘Yeah, dude, learn to drive,’ I yelled in his open window.

And only then did I remember I was no longer driving the streets of south London. I contemplated my karma as I looked in my rearview mirror. And then I noticed the sign on his car – Sang Spa.

Exactly the place I was headed to. How’s that for Karma working quickly? (by the way don’t tell John I went there.  I figure if I want to spend the entire amount of my latest advance on massages and chocolate then I should be allowed to but he might disagree and put Lula’s school fees and food on the table ahead of my addictions.)

It’s ok, I thought, I’ll just head there the back way and maybe the man in the car won’t be there.

But guess what? He’s there outside the spa. Parked up outside.  He sees me driving towards him and I know he’s clocked me. I’m wearing very distinctive sunglasses. Also there aren’t that many Western women driving jeeps in Ubud. He stands in the road and it’s like that scene in Dirty Harry. He just glowers at me.

I put my foot down and drive on past pretending not to notice.

I do a 2km loop and come back, figuring he’ll have moved on by then. You have to understand although there are approximately 342,873 spas in Ubud alone, each offering massage, this spa is the only spa I want to go to. I am not prepared to compromise. Luckily the man in the car has disappeared. I pull into a parking space.

A man appears in my rear mirror.

He’s wearing a sarong and a headscarf, but give a man a uniform, even if the uniform is a skirt, and something happens to him. He becomes a slave to his ego. In this case the man is a parking attendant.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ I murmur.

He blows his whistle. They always blow their whistles. Then he starts circling his arms turning an imaginary steering wheel.

‘Yeah, thanks, I know which way to bloody turn the wheel,’ I say, ‘unlike every Balinese driver, I actually learnt to drive and took a test.’

He circles back the other way to show me how to straighten up.

Is he joking?

‘Are you joking?’ I shout. (He can’t hear me over the 747 engine noises that our car emits). ‘I know how to park!’

I hear John laughing in my head. Then I hear my dad and my brother join in.

I get hold of myself. A few deep breaths. I open my door and he is there – the man in the sarong – holding out his hand for the parking fee and it takes every bit of  calm and control in my body to stop from pulling his head off his body and using it to play bowls with the scooters coming at me on the wrong side of the road going the wrong way down a one way street.

Not even a one hour massage could abate the rage.

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