Breakfast

Breakfast this morning in the cafe in Tooting, on the end of a road that used to be home.

Sitting in the scrunchy armchairs in the window, I can watch the world go by.

People pour on an off buses. People in uniforms going to work, people with bags, going shopping, mothers with buggies. An old lady, in a matching skirt and jacket, and black patent court shoes, bought when "Sunday Best" still meant something, walks with a stick, looking lost and frail, but when her bus comes in, she barges a teenager out of the way so she can get on first.

Couples walk briskly to the station; men in suits and ladies in dresses, heels and carrying hats, heading to weddings and champagne. People drag trolley suitcases behind them, destined for weekends away, and others walk away from the station, chattering happily with their weekend hosts.

101 men carry furtively carry roses. 101 bargain hunters carry brown paper Primark bags. 101 people with orange Sainsbury's carrier bags bursting with groceries and goodies. 101 nations represented before me, and 101 stories waiting to be told.

A man walks up the road in his pyjamas looking lost and confused, until a nurse catches up with him and gently turns him around. A girl, about my age, I'd guess, wears mittens on a cord which runs up the sleeves of her coat, and she twirls one absent mindedly whilst she waits to cross the road. Two women meet on the street, and greet one another with a hug - they mirror one another's gestures subconsciously, and have similar frames. They can only be sisters. A little girl stands next to her mother, who is reading the menu in the window above my head. I wink at her, and she tries to mimic, scrunching her whole face up in the effort to close only one eye.

A steady flow of people go to and from the hospital. Anxious looking first-time-visitors peer up roads, wondering which leads to the hospital entrance. Nurses and orderlies in uniforms dash up the roads with the confidence that comes only with doing the same journey daily. The walking wounded walk away from the hospital, sporting bandages and stitches new from a wild Friday night out.

My friend Steve walks past with a bag from the supermarket in one hand, and his phone in the other, which he is tap-tap-tapping away on. My old neighbours cross the road with the purpose of people running late, and I now with certainty that they will be heading for a day in an Irish bar to watch the rugby. Another old neighbour walks past in her own personal uniform - fishnet stockings, mini-skirt, plunging neckline, and too much makeup. We never knew what she did for a living, but everyone presumed ...

Cars and lorries shuffle up and down the high road. Horns toot. Mopeds squeeze through narrowing gaps. Three police cars, one after the other, weave between the traffic, sirens blaring, heading to the rescue of someone in need.

I can see into the shops facing me. Drivers and passengers shuffle in and out of the cab office, and the strange, customer-less patisserie gets a huge delivery of cream cakes that no-one will eat. The man in the aptly named "Taki Menswear" redresses the mannequins in his windows with cheap-and-not-so-cheerful shirts and jumpers.

Old and young, tall and short, busy and idle. They're all here. And I'm one of them.

I have a warm affection for Tooting. I love it's slightly grubby edges and it's tight packed mix of residents. I love it's buzz and bustle and the churn of people always around the station. And I love that I'm part of that, and that people were watching me right back.

Back to earth with a thump

So that was Christmas. In this house, at least, it's over for another year, and I can't say that it ended any too successfully. You don't need the details - they are too tedious - suffice to say, there was an incident relating to a bowl of tomato salsa, a cream sofa, an enthusiastically slammed door, and some frayed nerves. I think that all was resolved in the end, but it did rather take the sheen off the Christmas Cheer. If you ask me, the Little Baby Jesus has a lot to answer for.

And to top it off, I seem to have caught one of those snotty, snoring, wheezing, hacking kind of really sexy colds. Beautiful.

So all in all, when The Parents left this morning, I was feeling rather flat, and more than a little sorry for myself.

After an hour of self indulgent sulking and moping, I did what I do when I want to shake the mean reds, and I started walking. All did not start well, for I am still encountering teething problems with the sodding iPhone (am I the only person who thinks they aren't all that ...?) and couldn't get it to more than whisper music at me, so instead of setting my journey to the soundtrack of whatever the Shuffle threw at me, it was set to the thoughts running through my head. My journey went something like this ...

1) Bugger. Turned right instead of left. Oh well, I'll go 'round the block and look like I always meant to go this way.

2) Is that lady (could she really be drunk at this time? Well I suppose it is Christmas) going to veer left or right when I try and walk past her? I'll go left. Oh, dear! So will she! Squeeeeeze!

3) Do squirrels hibernate?

4) What IS that child wearing? And is it a boy or a girl? A girl. It's got long hair. Or maybe it's a boy with long hair. But what IS it wearing?

5) I wonder what will happen next Christmas. Will I have them come to me or will I go to them or will I do neither? Option (c) has a certain appeal. Perhaps a wee cottage somewhere remote with an open fire, a radio, no telly, and loads of books.

6) These houses are nice. I like the colour of that front door. Ooh, look at that nice Christmas tree. And I wonder where they got those blinds. They'd be nice in my house. Oops! Homeowner staring at me! Keeping walking!

7) Shall I go to The Nightingale for lunch? They do the lovely smoked haddock. But then it can be a bit brat infested. Perhaps I'll keep walking. Or shall I? Oh for goodness sake! Make up your mind and stop dithering on the pavement! Keep walking? Good decision. Now stop wondering about the smoked haddock.

8) Oh, these houses are nice too. I wonder if I'll ever live in a place like this? I wonder what I'll live in next. I wonder how long I'll live in my house. I wonder if I'll buy my next place alone or with someone. I wonder how long that will be. I wonder where it will be. I wonder if I will still live in London, or will I move out.

9) Good Lord! Is this year's "Must Have" accessory a three wheeler buggy? Everyone's got one! And did that mother really just say, "Please don't let him dribble on his tank top darling. It's Hilfiger"?

10) I know where I'll go. I'll go to Brew and have eggs Benedict. That'll hit the spot.

11) Oh sod. All the shops are shut. Bloody bank holidays! Wait! Cath Kidston is open. Perhaps they'll have something floral that I can't live without. I'll look after lunch.

12) No, not takeaway, eat in please. Yes a table would be nice. No, I'm not waiting for anyone. Yes, a table for one. One, yes. No, I'm really not waiting for anyone. (**Thinks to self: If you make me feel any more like a loner, you'll not get a tip, dear**). Yes, it is just me today. (**Thinks to self: There it goes!**)

13) That was nice. Now, a quick nip to Waitrose and then I think the bus home.

14) First I'll pop back and get a flowery laptop bag I think.

15) Oh look! There's the bus! Run, run, run, run, runnnnnnnn! Gottit!

16) Bugger. Didn't go to Waitrose.

17) Gosh, but I'm tired! Home, cup of tea, quick (!) blog post, and something easy for dinner I think. Something, of course, involving turkey (groan).

Here we come a wassailing

I know, I know, that I bang on A Lot about how lovely my little village-within-a-city is, and also how slightly crazy my neighbourhood is, but humour me. For tonight was a prime example.

I would like you to picture a scene. Picture an email being circulated around a neighbourhood in July, suggesting that everyone gets together to sing a few hymns and other songs in the local pub, to celebrate the season. Picture 200 people turning out and sitting in the back room of the local pub and joining in. Picture those people all spontaneously knowing all the words to all the songs and all the tunes and singing with abandon. Picture those people whooping and clapping when someone sings a solo of one of the verses of their favourite hymn.

Totally inconceivable, no?

And yet, in December, if you call the hymns "carols", then it's a different story. An invite went around inviting us all to a carol sing-along and we all turned out.

What actually happened was a whistle-stop tour of the world's best loved carols - a quick fa la la la la la, and a bit of a ding dong, and a sneaky hark! within about 45 minutes. That, I can assure you, takes some doing. I. Was. Pooped.

Then the evening of "Christmas" songs went from the sublime ...

(Yes ... they are Abba-ettes. The only thing less Christmassy than Easter)

... to the ridiculous ...

(for those unused to student discos, those are the words to "I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor).

It's all quite bizarre. The youngest in the room were teenagers, and the oldest in their 70's. The solid rugby playing men saved up their voices for a resounding "FIVE GOLD RINGS" and the young girls gave a dainty "sire, he lives a good league hence". The young 'uns looked obligingly blank when we sang it "My Way" and the oldies looked slightly embarrassed when we sang, with gusto, that there was a place for us (somehow, someway, somewhere). But everyone, to a man sat, and bellowed out the songs for the benefit only of everyone else in the room and their own personal enjoyment. I even sang an Abba song. And THAT takes some doing. The carols and the Christmas songs took up maybe a half of the evening, before the old classics took over. But somewhere in the midst of it all was the Spirit of Christmas. Alive and well in a slightly odd suburb of south London.

Hope your festivities are giving you at least some of the warm glow that I'm currently feeling.

TT

x

You don't have to be crazy to live here ...

... but I'm starting to wonder if there is some sort of pre-requisite that no-one told me about. Or whether it's only a matter of time until I start to blend in. Or whether I already do ...

I am a lucky girl. I live in the rare thing, which is a neighbourhood in London. We have a proper community here, in this tiny unknown corner of South London. There are all sorts of social groups and networks that exist here, which are focused on creating a lovely place to live. It's almost a village, but that it's hemmed in by a large sprawling city. I know my neighbours and their neighbours and the people beyond them, which is something which I've never had in London before. It's quite, quite lovely.

But there is a thread of craziness running through it all.

Tonight I discovered that there is a big annual event coming up which is something of an institution, and which anyone who's anyone in the community gets involved with.

Yay! Count me in!

It's a carolling event. On the last Saturday before Christmas every year, people congregate on the street outside the shops in the middle of the neighbourhood, and, supported by a local band, sing carols in the street, fuelled by mince pies and mulled wine from the lovely lady who runs the cafe. Isn't that lovely? What a nice thing to be able to take part in.

But because this isn't any usual neck of the woods, this wonderful, family, community, festive event takes place, very specifically, in the presence of a life sized cardboard cut out of Captain Jack Sparrow, in a Santa hat.

Is it me ...?

Merry Christmas everyone, and shiver me timbers!