We’re out of communications, kittens, talk amongst yourselves. But wish us luck!
Tag: London
“I like the silent church before the service begins, better than any preaching.”
― Ralph Waldo Emerson
I love getting in when or where others can’t. It’s not a noble confession, but it’s an honest one. And if you want a fantastic private peek into what is normally a very public space, make some time in your weekend calendar to attend Sunday services at the Tower of London. The main doors don’t open until after the first of two services (one communion, the other a sung matins), though a side gate admits service attendees without a ticket, and it’s an amazing chance to see this world heritage site nearly free of people. Redcoats excepted.
The Tower still functions as a military fortress, though the vast majority of its activities are understandably ceremonial. The Beefeaters may wear Tudor era uniforms but their assignment is a proper posting and a detachment of the Queen’s Guard stands sentry over the Crown Jewels.
However like all military bases, there’s a cottage community thriving here. Beefeaters live at the Tower, often with families, and there is also a small but famous Royal Chapel still in operation under the pastoral care of a military chaplain. St Peter ad Vincula (St Peter in Chains) is a Tudor church famous as the resting place of Queen Anne Boleyn, Queen Katherine Howard, Lady/Queen Jane Grey, St Thomas Moore, Margaret Pole, and others.
Attending a service here has been on my list of things To Do since moving to London, but I just never really got around to it. Then I went through the death throes of a faith crisis and didn’t really want to do anything more church-y than Christmas–which I still love and always will–and it fell off the radar. And then a friend friend from the MoFem (Mormon feminist) community invited me to attend on September 11th and it seemed a fitting thing to do.
One of the ravens stood by as a small group filed in for services, beak wide open and likely expecting one of the familiar uniforms to provide him breakfast.
Katie and I attended both the communion service and the sung matins, which I particularly enjoyed. Between the sessions, we wolfed down croissants and chatted about faith, community, expat life, and the nerdy history of the Book of Common Prayer. Totally normal touristy stuff.
The congregation was not large, but we weren’t the only Americans there and as a military brat, it was nice to hear a few words on the day from a chaplain whose career was focused in and around active service. The fact that he managed to tie in references to Poldark and Great British Bake Off, before circling around to familiar parables was just icing on the cake. In spite of the day, and the remembrances of the day, the whole experience felt friendly.
It may not be your usual cup of tea, but it’s worth trying, even if just to sit in stillness in a lovely place for a while.
“I should say: the house shelters day-dreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace.”
― Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space
Ironically, for someone who works in property, a couple of weeks after the Brexit vote (which has rattled the industry in a lot of interesting ways), our landlady dropped me an email informing us that as a result of the vote (amongst other things) she was selling the apartment and we’d have to move. The process should take a few months, and neither she nor the agents thought it would be a quick process and would likely go into next year, but she would keep us updated.
Well, alright then. We made a note, quietly started looking around the neighborhoods we were interested in living in, but not with a major sense of urgency, and figured we’d be moving in a few months. We were happy to help with viewings, provide access upon request, and keep the apartment neat and tidy…with the benefit of advance warning of visits at least.
Needlescratch to a week and a half ago when we got a phone call from the agent informing us that our apartment has been sold. Quite suddenly and without warning, our search kicked into high gear.
There is still a lot behind the scenes work for our landlady but all things considered we’d far rather choose when we go than be assigned a countdown clock by someone else. We spent a couple of days searching, made a list, called the relevant agents and set aside a weekend to do nothing but look at potential options. We ended up paired with a really savvy agent who clearly is good at his job because he both started and ended at properties that were at the north end of our budget, but were both good options. Cheeky. However I’m happy to say that as with our first apartment, the first one we saw was the winner and we made an offer the same day as we knew it would go quickly. Our landlady has approved the earlier move out and we had to pay an advance and deposit to secure it, but come October, we will not be homeless.
We will also, it must be said, be living in a truly adult apartment for the very first time. I could not be more thrilled. We will have a dishwasher for the first time in over seven years of marriage (whose name is not Jeff), a terrace, and a completely new kitchen–I grow misty eyed thinking about it. It’s a great apartment and we’re ready to live in something that is not a shoebox; our current flat is less than 350 square feet. We’re also ready for things like cupboards and wardrobes and blenders, silly as that may sound. We’ve been living without them for years, of course, but I’m really looking forward to things like cooking, laundry, and cleaning being a bit easier thanks to the fact that we don’t have to fight against decay as well as mess.
With an upgrade comes bigger challenges however. We own almost no furniture, only the raw basics of cooking gear, and most of what we own we will be able to fit into suitcases. We will have to build a home from scratch on a shoestring budget–as a significant portion of our expendable money went towards a deposit payment–and literally piece by piece. Starting with a mattress. It will take at least a year.
I’m ready for it.
“There is good clothing design on every level today. You can be the chicest thing in the world in a T-shirt and jeans — it’s up to you.”
― Karl Lagerfeld
So you’ve been noticing the (fantastic) trends towards embroidery and embellishment? So you’ve been eyeing those Gucci knits and patched everything floating around your pinterest boards and street style sites alike? So, awash in these musing, you think of your bank account and collapse into hysterical tears?
I’ve got you, kittens.
Behold Ragyard, a shop I stumbled into by accident in Shoreditch but which also has a Portobello Road outpost. They stock their own pieces featuring embroidery and patchwork in fairly small numbers. Some of their stuff could be outright festival wear but styled right and you’ve got a dead ringer for looks off the runway (or worn by tastemaking editors). Basic research also indicates they occasionally do one-of-a-kind pieces that I want to dive into a bit more.
The last thing I need is more lazy athleisure wear but the sweatshirts are oddly seductive. I’m currently sitting on my hands and being good, however I’m curious to see how the tease of these new snake patches is going to play out eventually and so might give in to temptation in the near future.
“Ask not what you can do for your country. Ask what’s for lunch.”
― Orson Welles
We happened across Street Feast entirely by accident–specifically we saw a ton of (I assume) event goers decked out in 1940s dress with a military theme apparently heading into a venue once. Then I did some googling out of curiosity. Then I discovered the conglomerate of street food venues scattered throughout the city, one of which was nicely near our apartment. Meet Hawker House!
In winter the food is indoors and heat lamps keep people cozy, in summer the party moves outside to food trucks.
Burgers, brisket, tacos, barbecue, Korean food, deserts, Pizza, and mixed grill all mingle happily.
Hello brisket, my old friend. You have been missed.
“There are moments, Jeeves, when one asks oneself, ‘Do trousers matter?'”
“The mood will pass, sir.”
― P.G. Wodehouse, The Code of the Woosters
This gentleman is a fabulous steampunk Cossack pirate, and I buy clothes from him.
I do not buy too many new clothing items these days. Exceptions are things like work clothes; I am in the process of building a small arsenal of work dresses and investing in high quality tailoring with the aim of building a capsule work wardrobe. But other than that, I have not bought new clothes in a long time and have instead bought things almost entirely vintage or second hand. There are a few reasons for this.
First, I’ve mentioned before what an impact reading this book made on me. Even though it was now several years ago, it has had a lasting effect on my shopping habits. More stuff, cheaply made is not good for anyone. Not the planet, not the below-minimally-paid garment workers of the world, not me. Too much bad stuff is suffocating society and the clothing industry is a major culprit.
You might not think it to watch my social media feed, but my closet has actually gotten significantly smaller over recent years as I’ve winnowed out cheap clothes and bought fewer but better pieces. Learning to be more intentional about my spending habits has been one of the primary mental shifts I experienced transitioning out of university, into work, then into freelancing, and finally into my current role. Even though what I buy is now more expensive per capita, I’m getting significantly more wears out of each item, replace them less frequently, and buy better quality in the first instance. More money but less shopping overall, and a surprising amount of money saved as a result.
Second, I love vintage clothing. Not the head-to-toe look that only someone like the incomparable Dita Von Teese can pull off, but individual, well made, well cared for pieces that will never go out of style. It’s how I bought an excellent British tweed jacket, for instance, that I will probably own for the rest of my life.
But shopping vintage or second hand also has a secondary benefit to overall quality: you are much, much less likely to see someone on the street wearing the same thing as you. In a society where fast, cheap fashion is everywhere and the same handful of retailers provide a huge majority of clothing to the general population, wearing something different can set you apart. It can also help you find amazingly fun items that really speak to your personality or sense of fun. The Cossack pirate sold me a vintage kimono that functioned as menswear in its original form, but now is my “opera coat” or going out jacket. Occasionally, on the advice of the Great and Good Caitlin, I flip it inside out to show off the hand painted panel. Why not?
I did not buy this leopard print fur jacket, but that’s strictly due to reasons of poverty.
I tried to be a good little Londoner and wear mostly black for a long time (and still occasionally do go monochrome for convenience and/or laziness), but eventually gave up. I love color and personality in my clothes too much and always need a punch of something on my person. Second hand or vintage shopping allows me to hunt for things like this that would cost me my firstborn child or a kidney to buy new. And because I no longer buy clothing on a whim; rather I spend time hunting for things that I really want, that really fit, and that I genuinely love. I spent a year trying to find a Sukajan jacket with a fun design (this one is actually reversible–two jackets for the price of one!) that actually fit me before finally forking out any money for one.
The third reason to not buy new clothes ties to my second. Because my industry is so image conscious, the clothing that people wear telegraphs messages constantly. The best sales agents I have ever seen can take one look at a man and accurately estimate his income based on his watch or shoes. They can make a pretty decent guess about a woman’s industry and even educational background by her accessories. It’s scary how much people can tell at a glance of you.
When I say I’ve been investing in a work wardrobe, I mean it literally. Some brands or items or even stylistic looks carry a certain cache that I in turn want to tap into when presenting to external companies or meeting with clients. I want to be in control of the messages my appearance puts out about me or whoever I happen to representing at the time. “Power bag” or “power heels” aren’t buzzwords, I have been treated very and noticeably differently based on which shoes I have chosen to wear to client or investor meetings. It may sound frivolous, but it’s anything but. Buying secondhand allows me to spend less on items of clothing that would otherwise be utterly beyond my price range, but are very real tools in my trade. Living in a city like London where fashion flows constantly, pre-owned doesn’t even necessarily mean used! Last winter I snagged a gorgeous Miu Miu coat in a beautiful wool (incredibly warm) with an embellished collar and spiked belt (again, why not!) that still had the tags of its original purchase on it.
Having bought clothing almost exclusively second hand for years now, I don’t really see myself going back to buying new except in a handful of instances. Not only are the perks of saving money and finding wholly unique items too good to give up, I genuinely enjoy the hunt for bargains or stellar finds. It makes getting dressed more fun and gives me a story to tell with nearly everything I put on. I’ll take it over cheap fast fashion any day.
“We all like chicken.”
― Malcolm X, The Autobiography of Malcolm X
Sometimes you just get a craving in your bones…for finger-lickin’, deep fried, calorie dense, proper American Southern food.
Then reality asserts itself rudely and you recall that you live in Britain, which is not wholly conducive to the getting of said food. This may or may not trigger a quick series of emotions (irritation, maudlin despair, angsty regret for what you have lost, etc. etc.) culminating in a tiny moment when you consider if the food grass is greener on the other side–of the Atlantic.
Then you remember that The Lockhart exists and calm down because everything is fine again; plus your existential alarm over food was a little unnerving, no?
It’s tucked away on a little side street, disconcertingly near Selfridges. The upstairs is almost Spartan with a hipster-appropriate exposed brick wall and genuine antiques, but downstairs is a slightly edgier (while still incredibly homey) space for larger parties and entertaining. As a rolicking party of two, we have always been seated up top, which bothers us not a bit. There are fresh flowers, mismatched furniture, constant refills…all the things that I like. Also, while always peopled, it is never crowded and we have never once had an issue getting, or wait for a table.
Full disclosure, we have only ever been to brunch here, but has been enough to earn our ringing endorsement. We do intend to try their other meals at some point, but in the meantime, they hold one fundamental reason for our Most Important Meal of the Day devotion:
Chicken and Waffles.
Although the cornbread cooked on order, served piping hot with bubbling butter, smothered and covered biscuits and gravy, shrimp and grits, pork belly and hash, and more are all worthy of honorable mention. If you happen to be in Marylebone and craving something deep fried, stroll over to Seymour Place and indulge. It’s what gyms are for.
“Ask not what you can do for your country. Ask what’s for lunch.”
― Orson Welles
I am not a huge ramen fan…unless it is made by Bone Daddies. The same group behind one of my favourite fun food joints, Flesh and Buns, Bone Daddies recently set up what appears to be a semi-permanent pop up in arches along Old Jamaica Road. Which happens, handily, to be within easy walking distance of us.
Various sections of train arches throughout London are undergoing some development these days. They’ve always been used as shopfronts of various types, but lately they are serving as venues for markets, restaurants, bars, and concept shops of a slightly more eclectic and upscale style. And not in a snobby way in the slightest. The results have been a lot of dis- or underused areas turning into genuine foodie or lifestyle hubs. We seek them out shamelessly.
Bonus husband objectification, but the real prize…
…is the food. As usual.
If you’re south of the river, it’s definitely worth a look in!
“Bloodies are the centerpiece of the Sunday Brunch–they are also, perhaps, the #1 Prep mixed drink…..
1. Place ice cubes in a large glass
2. Pour in two fingers of vodka
3. Fill glass almost to top with V-8
4. Season with: 2 drops Tabasco, 4 drops Worcestershire, 1/2 tsp. horseradish, 1 tsp. lime juice
5. Add wedge of lime, stir and drink
6. Repeat as needed”
― Lisa Birnbach, The Official Preppy Handbook
Starting from when I went to university and getting increasingly worse as time went on, Church attendance had pained me for years. There was a particularly memorable length of time where I came home from every single service either in tears or enraged by something that had been said over the pulpit, taught by a teacher or leader, or even just discussed in the classes that follow the main communion service in Mormonism which is the central part of Sunday worship. I started taking breaks from attendance when we still lived in the States, a week here or even a month there, believing that if I gave it some time and space, the next time I went to services would be better. Almost inevitably it was not and often it was worse. A sermon would be preached proclaiming things to be true that I believed deeply to be false. A teacher would cite centuries of Church leadership stating a position I thought fundamentally wrong. Stances I held because I felt them to be right and good were decried as dangerous or even evil. Meanwhile, my own research into history was complicating the many, more simple stories I had been taught about my faith all my life.
This wasn’t a one-time thing, it had lasted the better part of a decade. It was spiritually and emotionally draining, and the cognitive dissonance was strongest on the weekends. I came to dread the Sundays when we did attend services as the results were usually bad, and Sundays when we didn’t I spent at home whipping myself into a mass of Puritan-descended guilt. I felt for years that something was wrong with me for thinking and feeling the way I did and having the questions I had. I felt ashamed that I had not been able to find the same answers within the faith that almost everyone important in my life had, and embarrassed to be struggling with a problem that, as far as anyone else could tell (whichever side of faith divide you fall on) was entirely in my own head. To a lot of outside observers who shared their thoughts on the matter with me, it should have been easy to decide either to stay or to go. It wasn’t.
The last time I attended services was here in London.
In news which is not in the least groundbreaking, Mormonism has a major problem with racism in its history and in ways that affect it right up to the present day. Black men could not be ordained to the lay priesthood until just eight years before I was born, and both men and women of African descent were excluded from the most important parts of worship in Mormon temples–which is, by the way, fundamentally necessary in the LDS view of salvation. Meaning it was a valid theological question whether or not black people even got into heaven, and if they did, in what capacity. There are decades of recorded statements on the matter that black men and women did not qualify to enter heave except as “servants.” Cringe.
The LDS church has been attempting to formally address some of the troubled or troubling aspects of its past through a series of essays over the past few years, and I give it a lot of credit for confronting many of these issues head on using good scholarship and historical citations. It has not always done so. One of these essays concerns the history of what has been come to be called the “Priesthood Ban,” though I find this problematic since women are not ordained to the LDS priesthood at all and as mentioned women were just as excluded from what are considered saving ordinances. In some academic circles the more accurate term of “Racial Ban” has gained traction, and it’s the one I use. This essay goes on to explain that a number of folkloric justifications for the Racial Ban developed in the LDS community over the years (quite true) and that church leaders today disavowed those previous statements and reasoning (this essay was the first disavowal I have ever seen, and is fairly weak, but I’m willing to take the intention in good faith). It’s a long overdue piece of writing, and doesn’t go far enough in clearing up the decades and centuries of racially tinged folklore and official teachings of the church, in my opinion, but it’s a step forward.
It was after this particular essay had been released that Jeff and I made the decision to give LDS services in London a real shot. We’d only attended church sporadically for the first few months of living here because I was frankly burned out from leaving services crying or ranting, and Jeff was not far behind me in exasperation, though he was much less vocal about it. Nevertheless, it was worth a shot recommitting ourselves to regular attendance, we decided, and so off we went one December Sunday with a renewed sense of dedication and a quiet uptick in hope. Perhaps all the frustrations were mostly our fault and if we shut our mouths more often and tried listening instead, we’d notice the things that bothered us less and the things that uplifted us more.
Plus, we were a bit lonely. Growing up in the military meant that the Mormon congregations we attended were a massive part of my family’s social structure. No matter what country we moved to, we were assured of finding an instant community of people ready to welcome us with open arms. As adults and expats in our own rights now, Jeff and I were missing that community, having found nothing to replace it with. The congregation we were assigned to at the time was in South London and almost entirely made up of first or second generation African or Afro-Caribbean immigrants to the UK. There seemed to be a couple of expats and a lot of people from “somewhere else” as we were so I was hopeful we’d find a group of people with similar experiences to us who would have a lot of wisdom to share.
The day in question, just before Christmas, it so happened that the Sunday school teacher was a visiting white American man who, rather than teaching the lesson topic he had been assigned, decided to expound to the congregation (of, again, almost entirely black members) his feelings about the recently released race essay. They were not entirely positive and the main gist of this speech was that he was puzzled that leaders had “disavowed” the teachings he had always “known” to be truth. I could have felt more sympathy for him if he had not gone on to lecture the members as to why “you people” were not able to be ordained to the priesthood, citing the very folkloric teachings the essay tried to distance itself from as truth, and growing more animated in the defense of those racist theories as he went on.
I sat there for as long as I could but at some point I got up, found the bishop in another part of the church, apologized profusely for what was about to happen, and burst into tears. After first assuring himself that the teacher got back on track to his appointed teaching topic, that kind bishop sat and listened to me as I sobbed for an hour about how for years, every single time I had entered a church building, I had heard a lesson like this. Racist, sexist, politically tinged in a way to make me wince, anti-LGBT in ways that violated my conscience, and so on. I was (and remain) deeply conflicted that as a white, admittedly privileged woman, I had felt offended where clearly people who had far more cause than me to be were not, but as I explained to that patient man, my reaction was not the result of that one hour, but the years proceeding it. Church did not feel safe for me, and I genuinely felt that there was no place for me in the organization I had been raised in. I fundamentally disagreed with too much of it, and as time went on the disagreements and dissent were getting bigger and bigger.
He listened. He acknowledged the social/political/historical divides I felt (even validated a few of them as being genuinely hard to reconcile with the faith). He didn’t try to cite quotes from leaders or scripture at me as previous bishops I had spoken to on the subject had done. There was genuine love and sincere care in the way he spoke to me; it was the kindest encounter I had had with church leaders in years.
And as I said, it was the last time I attended services, unless staying with family or escorting visiting friends. Jeff and I decided to take another break after this particular Sunday, this one intentional and for as long as we needed; guilt was not allowed. We found other things to do on weekends: museums, walks, markets, exploring the city, and just generally being with one another. It was spiritually restful. A few months later, a spate of high-profile excommunications took place that cemented for both of us that the LDS church was not where we wanted to be nor aligned with what we support and believe. We did not believe several of the key truth claims, we could not in good conscience support the leadership on the many public stances they had taken, and neither of us were comfortable with the idea of raising a family in the structure–particularly daughters. Even to keep the peace with friends and family, there was no point in even going through the motions of attendance or participation. We were done.
These days we attend what I only semi-satirically call, The Church of Brunch. On Sunday mornings we now usually go to one of a handful of venues that do a proper Yank brunch–or occasionally get adventurous and try to find a new joint famed on blogs or social media for its protein and carb heavy concoctions. We linger over food. We debate, argue, joke, talk news, gossip about work, and plan for our future. We’ve had some of the deepest and most meaningful conversations of our marriage over pots of tea and avocado toast (sausages and waffles on his side). We often include friends, growing the new community we are trying to build for ourselves as proverbial strangers in a strange land, but more often we use it as a time to reconnect after long weeks focused on careers.
It’s not a global network or system of belief, and I suspect most people would probably laugh about it if I tried to explain it to them, but the Church of Brunch has done me and us a lot of good. It’s filled a gap and created a safe space in a time slot that was previously dreaded and painful. It’s reliable, uncomplicated, and good in the way that simple, basic things often are. We plan on including future friends, children, and even strangers (we strike up the oddest and best conversations with our co-diners). And it’s delicious. We expect to be devotees for a long time.
“All the world’s a stage and most of us are desperately unrehearsed.”
― Seán O’Casey
It’s months ago now, but it’s never a bad moment to revisit Shakespeare at midnight, right?
The midnight matinees at The Globe have become one of my favorite summer traditions for us (see disclaimer in the title) since moving here. It never matters that the city is dark or that the audience is caffeinated to a silly degree, the MMs are some of the best times I’ve had at the theatre in my life.
Last summer’s play was “As You Like It,” and while it didn’t really compare to the bloodbath (on stage and within the audience!) that was Titus Andronicus of the year before, who doesn’t love a nice gender-bending romp in the forests of Belgium!
Groundlings milling as the bell is rung to summon us into the round
Meanwhile The Globe is as gorgeous as it ever was.
Some of that aforementioned caffeine may have been imbibed but yours truly…
To cap off the evening we made the acquaintance of a red-coated gentleman who was hanging out outside the Tate Modern, sublimely unaffected by the humans milling about, high off the Immortal Bard. An excellent night all around, and it’s not even a question about whether we’re going back this year. After all, if twice is a tradition, three times must make it legally binding or something!
Small Dog Syndrome 