Diary from London

Jean Nouvel’s Summer Pavillion at the Serpentine Gallery

So into week two or is that three?  I have established a semi-routine but still my days are governed by the comings and goings of workmen.  There are wires poking out of walls, a chip in my granite top and a bath towel replaces a blind at the kitchen window but overall it is liveable.  When not hanging around the tiny flat sharing a desk with Mr. J. when he is in town and suffering his sighs and bitchy remarks about the mess I make, I have discovered the joy of Hyde Park where I go running on alternate mornings.  When Mr. Jules is with me I make him run just slightly ahead of me (which he does anyway) so that he looks like my personal trainer and I look like one of those rich eurobabes who, when not out with their PTs, are taking their Hermès bags for walks around  South Kensington and Chelsea.  I feel a bit of a plonker with my over-size fake Hermès bag but as my friend Martha put it,

“Seeing all that just makes me want to go the other way.”

Quite.  AND how would it look if I turned up at my yoga teacher training next week with a Hermès bag?  I’ve even stopped the French gel manicures but draw the line at under arm hair.

LONDON IS JUST FAB.  I wake up every day excited to be in this city knowing that there is so much to be discovered and so much to do.  Yesterday I took Mr. Jules along to The White Cube Gallery which I love to pop into because it is outrageous. Yesterday’s exhibit was devoted to a video maker who had, for some reason only known to him, decided to film ice cracking from underneath the ice.  It was indeed, as Mr. Jules pronounced, Bollocks so off he trotted to Lilly White’s to stock up on sports gear with strict instructions from me to buy everything in Personal Trainer black. 

When I put Lexi to bed last night I saw that she was wearing mascara. 

“Who put the mascara on you?”  I asked trying not to sound too incredulous.

“Elena,” she replied batting her eye lashes.

Elena is her new BFF who lives around the corner in Thurloe Place and who is on the bus with her in the mornings.  (The bus service is not only door to door but the drivers actually get out open the door for them and wait like liveried staff.  The evening one is an all singing black guy who does a great impersonation of Lionel Richie. When the flat’s buzzer wasn’t working and I was hanging about outside in the street, he opened the bus door and sang:

Is it me you are waiting for?

The morning driver is a pissed off bloke who reluctantly gets out with a  look on his face that says “fucking spoilt brats.” 

I can’t blame him.  Somewhere deep inside I can hear the same voice but…well what is the BUT?  The but is a whole other blog about choice and life paths and not looking gift horses in the mouth.  I can write this without feeling smug or pompous because Mr. J. and I are self made – or does that sound even more smug? 

Anyway, who cares.  Back to Alpha girl Elena, the quick witted Chinese American who invited Lexi last night to Vogue Fashion Night with her mum.  This is when the whole of London has a party and invites you to preview the autumn collections.  I was invited by Joseph in Bond Street (Mr. J. tried to hide the invitation) but elected to go  check out a yoga class on the Old Brompton Road instead.  It was the De Rose method which claims to have its roots in yoga.  It DOES NOT . It takes its roots from an OAP’s exercise class at the local WI.  Whilst I was being led through the boring static poses by a Brazilian who called me Hulia (Julia) and really should have taken more English language courses -instructing us to give ourselves internal messages (massages)- I kept thinking of the champagne and canapés I was missing and got hit by a tsunami of clothes lust.  I cursed myself that I should have known it would be rubbish as only two others turned up for the class.  Both I suspect were only there because they had a crush on the Brazilian.  This is London and yoga classes are massive with sweating gorgeous people fighting for every spot…but not in the Old Brompton Road obviously.  Ah well I got to do a headstand and felt pious for not spending any money.

Lexi got back after me and told me that she had bumped into Gwyneth in Stella McCartney and Pixie Lot in Top Shop.

Me hiding from all the workmen in the park in one of Jean Nouvel’s hammocks.