So, last off I had found a temping job with ok pay and was hunting for a place to live in Shepherds Bush, London. Now it was round about, exactly this time that Pete was supposed to be arriving. Pete was the boyfriend I left behind when I left South Africa as he wasn't quite ready to up and leave everything. Obviously with such a fantastic girlfriend missing from his life, this soon changed and two and a half months after I departed from South Africa, so did he.
A week before he arrived I was sleeping on a sneaky air mattress with an even sneakier, lazy leak, on the floor of some Australian girls Kylie had met on Contiki - long story, and your morals of who you 'use' sway slightly with desperation. So I had started working and hunting around for some little hovel we could inhabit on a web site called gum tree.
After numerous dead-ends and the occasional weirdo and deathly boring inhabitants, I settled on one that had a lounge with a TV, a little garden, 5 bedrooms, two bathrooms and was available and a stomachable price. I had no conditions, I met none of the housemates, I was just tired of living out my suit case for the past 3 months and asking permission each time I wanted to borrow a teaspoon.
So met the frosty lady at the house and checked around a bit, as long as it wasn't missing, say, a roof I was bound to take it anyway as Pete was arriving in two days. But to 'hold' the place until we moved in and paid one month's rent as deposit as well as one month's rent up front, she wanted a deposit of £200. Hah. So I proudly scraped together £100 and said isn't that enough? Apparently not and as she pocketed my money she said she'd need my passport as a deposit. Little whench. So after arguing and struggling and badmouthing her, there was no other option - have Pete arrive and we both move into a hostel, or surrender your passport for two days. Gulp. So I thrust it at her, naming fictional judges and 'bobbies' who could take her down with one phone call and trudged off to work. She said we had until 10:30am to get to the house on Saturday to get the keys and move in and pay our money - which was the same day Pete flew in van SA af.
So at 5am I woke up and slinked to the airport to meet Pete (you can really only 'slink at 5 in the chilly morning). Then flight was supposed to arrive at 6:30am but when I got their all was delayed and it was only expected at 7:30. So I sipped on some cruddy coffee and twiddled my thumbs. Eventually the plane touched down then took an hour to find a free carousel to dump the luggage - Pete was the stone last person to come through at 12:30 after cavity searches and TB xrays. Of course in this time I had the land lord's assistant down my throat about how I'd inconvenienced her and what she could do to my passport. In my gloriously damp mood I told her where she could stick it and pondered, while I waited, what to do next.
Cut a long struggle short we moved in that day after coughing up a ludicrously large sum of money and went about meeting our new house mates. It was probably a good thing I did not meet specific ones before I decided as my decision would have been largely afflicted, but a pity too as on the whole we are really happy with our house. The reason for my initial concern was the first day, when the house was rather empty, a 70 year-old man marched down the stairs and toward the door. Cornering him I introduced myself and he roughly did the same before escaping -turns out those words are the first anyone's ever heard him utter in a year. When I told the older housemates I met 'Joe' they all blinked and asked who he was. But he keeps to himself, he has a microwave and sink in his room so never goes near the kitchen or the Lounge, and to be honest very few have ever seen him coming out of the bathroom, though we can only assume he must - but I do have my suspicions of bedpans and such. But he's not near our room so bed-pan away Gramps! So housemate number 1 - Joe, the 70- year old bookie who likes long walks on the beach and hanging out at gambling places.
Next there's Helen, the other perculiar housemate. At 28 she decided it was time to move away from mum and dad, went two stops up on the tube line and settled in the house. She studied something to do with landscape and fossils then went into publishing - something like the organising release dates and stuff for journals - really dull sounding. But she is quite too. And lives in front of the TV, with rather annoying habits like sucking her teeth so loudly you can hear her from the kitchen. Only thing that keeps her in our good books is that she's part of our quiz team - the 'answer-most-of-the-answers' part, and has won us meal vouchers, a case of beer and even money once (just £10ea). But yeah, part of the thick glasses, no make up and no drinking. Probably has a moon bag in her bedroom somewhere. Has all these old Hitchcock etc films, with a sticky label with her name and details in case they may be 'borrowed and not put back'. Bit anal. But fine.
Then there's the two French guys. I group them together because they spend every moment together, like a little couple - and we remind them often. Mathias and Gaeton (their silly French names) both work for Yahoo and were transferred across from France, oddly enough. They are really friendly and laugh a lot and it's fun having them in the house. They're sp typically French you imagine them in berrets, moustaches and painting palets, with french loaves under their arms. They buy all their groceries where we do but somehow manage to dig up a French brand for nearly all household ammenities. They also have a dvd player and play station in the lounge, which probably notches up their popularity points.
Lastly, and proabably everyone's favourite is a slick, funny-as-hell Australian guy called Phil. I've never pretended to like Australians much and have since come into contact with many loud and vulgar specimen's - such as one of Kylie's friends telling me 'I've liked so many guys recently, I feel like I'm on heat'. Pure charm. Anyway, Phil is a special character that you can't help but love - witty and hilarious, the whole house can forgive his rather sloppy approach to house-sharing, such as his 'special angels' he brings home every third night, and his mid-morning phone calls when he gets home.
And that's it really, our big happy home. Luckily the two bathrooms seem to work out with the number of people and I've come to be quite happy with sharing a house. Always people to tell stuff to and greet in the mornings, and I've even trained the Frenchmen to invite their friends over for a 'braai'.
Tuesday, 10 October 2006
Wednesday, 9 August 2006
Back in London...
So after our ‘adventures’ in the apple business, we sulked back to London with the strong stink of defeat hanging in the air.
Given the money situation that was tighter than – well very tight, we decided to split up and stay with people we knew rather than having to fork out for a hostel. So whilst Kylie went and stayed in Shepherds Bush with the girls she’d met on her Contikki tour – sleeping on an air mattress between their beds, I went and stayed with a good friend – of a good friend – of mine. I arrived at the train station and shuddered as the wind found the gap between my neck and shirt collar. So I stepped away from the extractor fan outlet and felt a bit warmer. Peering down the gloomy station I didn’t see a face I recognised, so sought shelter in the three-walled waiting room on the platform.
After a little while a vaguely familiar face popped in, the ticket collector from the train, but behind him was the person I was waiting for. ‘Hey Donald’, I said, ‘Er, it’s Duncan actually but hi!’ Ok it wasn’t that radical but it was still rather a big leap of faith in the nature of having met someone a few times – more so for he than I. But little did he know – muhaha!
But he happily took me to his home and tah-dah-ed at the lounge I was to call my salvation for the next few nights. I was just relieved to find a warm dry house and having friends in your bedroom watching telly with you at night isn’t so bad. There was a rather cloudy experience from one night – I had the meanest leanest budget such that going out was a ridiculous thought – drinking, what’s that?! Not a chance, so there I was, spending more time in the house than any of the others who actually lived there. Not that I snuffled through their knicker draws, but I did feel awkward saying every night ‘Nah, I think I’ll just have a quiet one tonight.’ So I had gotten to sleep at around midnight on a week-night when somewhere mid-dream the door swung open and the light flicked on. It was the chef guy ‘Fittim’ or something. Rather surprised to find me there after meeting me the day before, he smiled and asked politely as if he had an extra orange ‘Would you like a line?’ In my naivity or perhaps stutter at the easy way in which this was presented I said ‘What?’ to which he repeated ‘A line, would you like a line?’ ‘Oh, no, no thank you’ and he smiled and went back out the room as if he was never there. I blinked in the dark darkness that the light had left, shook my head and went back to sleep. So besides these little fun escapades, it was okay – although a very trying week – going on the hunt every day for some sort of job – not entirely sure which one to aim for but knowing it would be a good idea to have one. I’d even walk in the rain to the tube station further away because it was cheaper than the closer one as it was a zone closer to the centre. Yip I know poverty J
Anyway, so decided to try temping to get some money in whilst I fed my little whims of being a traveller or something. Given my receptionist experience through the vet while I was studying I should be able to get something fairly quickly – and I did. A two-week stint at a happy little laid back community centre in London, right on the edge of the Thames. This meant the cold weather at the beginning of Spring was emphasised by water rushing and crashing around. I wasn’t convinced that London actually got a summer, and this wasn’t helping. But it was quite a prime location I was told – I didn’t care much, I did care more about the fact that they owned the whole building so we got discounts in the awesome deli next door. So I could afford a smoked salmon baguette, but it was still hard ok! But it did mean I started at £8 an hour, paid weekly, and had the ‘letter from an employer’ saying I was sane enough to be trusted with a bank account. So I went about getting a bit more integrated into my new little area and set about looking for somewhere to live...
Given the money situation that was tighter than – well very tight, we decided to split up and stay with people we knew rather than having to fork out for a hostel. So whilst Kylie went and stayed in Shepherds Bush with the girls she’d met on her Contikki tour – sleeping on an air mattress between their beds, I went and stayed with a good friend – of a good friend – of mine. I arrived at the train station and shuddered as the wind found the gap between my neck and shirt collar. So I stepped away from the extractor fan outlet and felt a bit warmer. Peering down the gloomy station I didn’t see a face I recognised, so sought shelter in the three-walled waiting room on the platform.
After a little while a vaguely familiar face popped in, the ticket collector from the train, but behind him was the person I was waiting for. ‘Hey Donald’, I said, ‘Er, it’s Duncan actually but hi!’ Ok it wasn’t that radical but it was still rather a big leap of faith in the nature of having met someone a few times – more so for he than I. But little did he know – muhaha!
But he happily took me to his home and tah-dah-ed at the lounge I was to call my salvation for the next few nights. I was just relieved to find a warm dry house and having friends in your bedroom watching telly with you at night isn’t so bad. There was a rather cloudy experience from one night – I had the meanest leanest budget such that going out was a ridiculous thought – drinking, what’s that?! Not a chance, so there I was, spending more time in the house than any of the others who actually lived there. Not that I snuffled through their knicker draws, but I did feel awkward saying every night ‘Nah, I think I’ll just have a quiet one tonight.’ So I had gotten to sleep at around midnight on a week-night when somewhere mid-dream the door swung open and the light flicked on. It was the chef guy ‘Fittim’ or something. Rather surprised to find me there after meeting me the day before, he smiled and asked politely as if he had an extra orange ‘Would you like a line?’ In my naivity or perhaps stutter at the easy way in which this was presented I said ‘What?’ to which he repeated ‘A line, would you like a line?’ ‘Oh, no, no thank you’ and he smiled and went back out the room as if he was never there. I blinked in the dark darkness that the light had left, shook my head and went back to sleep. So besides these little fun escapades, it was okay – although a very trying week – going on the hunt every day for some sort of job – not entirely sure which one to aim for but knowing it would be a good idea to have one. I’d even walk in the rain to the tube station further away because it was cheaper than the closer one as it was a zone closer to the centre. Yip I know poverty J
Anyway, so decided to try temping to get some money in whilst I fed my little whims of being a traveller or something. Given my receptionist experience through the vet while I was studying I should be able to get something fairly quickly – and I did. A two-week stint at a happy little laid back community centre in London, right on the edge of the Thames. This meant the cold weather at the beginning of Spring was emphasised by water rushing and crashing around. I wasn’t convinced that London actually got a summer, and this wasn’t helping. But it was quite a prime location I was told – I didn’t care much, I did care more about the fact that they owned the whole building so we got discounts in the awesome deli next door. So I could afford a smoked salmon baguette, but it was still hard ok! But it did mean I started at £8 an hour, paid weekly, and had the ‘letter from an employer’ saying I was sane enough to be trusted with a bank account. So I went about getting a bit more integrated into my new little area and set about looking for somewhere to live...
Thursday, 20 July 2006
Mini Auschwitz - The apple experience
So it was from a smelly sticky phone booth, decorated with lovely pictures of naked women saying 'call me for a good time', well, they really said 'porta estuida saleh blah blah blah', but I guess that's about right. Anyway, so phone booth in Faro, Portugal, when we got the deal-clencher re the apple farm. Pure delight seeped into our sunburnt faces as we jumped up and down and up again at the prospect of a job. We knew our money situation was tighter than - well tight, and so our only option on our return was to find a live-in job - easier said than done. As this generally narrows it down to bar work and prostitution, we were in trouble. The bar work we'd done in our highschool/early university days was not enough for the bar managers and there were thousands of people fighting over these jobs like the last sausage. And then prostitution, well the hours didn't suit me. :)
So to have a snooty, silver-spoon-up-orriface man finally give the go ahead to our job on the apple farm, with pay and accomodation the instant we returned, we were thrilled. And the lengthy struggle to get in there must lend it some credibility...
So we were collected from the airport by the wonderful Lesley, and returned to their home for a night. We were going to visit friends Kylie met on her Contikki trip before departing on the monday for the farm in Kent. This was quite fun - rather hilarious actually... We went to a German pub in the evening for a very good reason - jelly wrestling. Two girls would face eachother in the pit wearing whatever they didn't mind getting drenched (some seemed to mind a whole lot...) and would wrestle in two rounds of this really advanced sport, to be voted by the crowd as to who the winner was. This often included flashing certain bits to up there chances, as winners claimed a £50 bar tab. Rumour has it Kylie partook in this peculiar sport but that's all I'm going to say.
Anyway, so on the monday we hopped on a train and tottled out to the countryside and slumped out with our luggage at a one-street town, it was bitterly cold, and I was growing rather concerned as this was the beginning of May and supposed to be the end of Spring... This must be the villiage the farm borders. No, from here one gets a taxi to the village the farm borders, and then taxis into the farm. So quite far out, we weren't too fussed - we'd become pretty thick-skinned after our travels so we could handle whatever was thrown our way.
We climbed out the taxi choking on the charge and found ourselves infront of a very grey building with a little doorbell that didn't work. Thumping on the door, the weasily little bespectacled secretary who had put me on hold while she ate her breakfast, combed her hair etc numerous times peered at us through the glass door before opening it. 'Hi, I'm here to see James Simpson.' 'Mr Simpson?' 'Well ok then, if James is out' Sigh, that one went over her head. Apparently we were to wait outside in the chill for a big guy called 'Steven', who would show us around. He lumbered over and introduced himself as he lead us to our accommodation so that we could leave our bags. Leaning his full weight against the handle, our caravan, yes c-a-r-a-v-a-n shuddered as the narrow door creaked open. I think all doors in caravans are really narrow because if they were any wider, the cardboard they make them out of would crumple at the lack of support.
So we peered into the musty 'lounge', using the term most loosely you understand, and down the 'passage' which doubled up as a kitchen, toward the master bedroom, hehehe, and to the far 'wall', all about 5 metres. So we optimistically threw in our bags and tried not to think of the weird fact that our caravan was a tad lonely - where did all the other fun, lively students stay? Next it was to the ablutions, hoho, teehehe, that were an 800m walk - to one toilet and one shower thingy, that was shared by all the other people who lived on the farm. Note - bring own toilet paper. He showed us the pack house where we were to meet him the following morning and said good bye. We had already discovered that it would be apple 'packing', before apple 'picking' at the end of the summer. Leaving us in the middle of the day rather baffled. So we ambled back to our shell and searched the cupboards for anything resembling a cup, a spoon or a plate. Nothing. No radio, no TV. So we sat and looked at eachother for some time, looked a little more and were saved by the arrival of a car later in the afternoon.
A very afrikaans man hopped out, 'Stefan', and asked if our caravan was ok and in order? I'm not quite sure what this would mean - in my opinion it would never really be 'in order' but at least he resurrected the bar fridge lying down in the lounge and got it working. He said he'd be back later with a few plates and things and could drop us off at the shops on his way to gym and was off. He returned an hour later with some odd remains of cutlery and crockery, two toasters and things we weren't sure what to do with, but we smiled and thanked him and hopped in the car to go buy silly little things from the shops like a pillow and some budget food.
Now although we were both too proud to admit it at such an early stage, our first day did not leave a happy impression, but we'd have work the next day and would be ok once we met some people. So bored as anything, we climbed into bed and froze as we slept in our cardboard box. Neither of us slept from the cold so work was a bit of a dreary thought, but we got ourselves together and went to the pack house. We did find a heater the following night but were too afraid to leave it on during the night for fear of us catching alight.
At the pack house we met the other people on the farm - Iliana, Katalana, Diana, Milana, etc-ana - we only know the names from the role call, no none of them could speak any English - honestly I tried. A bus came in every morning from town to drop the Latvians off. The mojority of them were over 40 and had a permanent snarl and peculiar smelling hair. We were assigned pack lines and told our job - apples come on conveyor belt, sort bad from good, toss the bad and put good in packets - 8 in each. And that was it. It did not deviate in the slightest. That was it. We were stationed at our own lines and the apples never stopped coming. Unless you were in fast forward mode, you were up to your eyeballs in apples. I tried throwing them back up the ramp, eating them, hiding them, packing more in a bag but they still kept coming - like Micky mouse and the brooms. Anyway, by the end of the first day, our wrists and backs ached and we were rather miserable. The problem was, as we had no money at all as we spent it getting there and buying food for the week, we had nothing to do, nowhere to go and no choice but to stay there. Gone were our little romantic images of a chubby happy farmer's wife calling us 'mischief-makers' in for some fresh apple pie and cream. This was mini Auschwitz, the apple farm in hell. For breakfast and lunch we had marmite toast, and for dinner it was scrambled egg on toast, if we were lucky.
We spent most of the day in solitude, working amongst people who we could not speak to, getting home with nothing really to talk about - we'd exhausted all that in our backpacking, so we just kind of existed. After a few days, although we knew exactly what to do, it never got easier on our bodies or our minds - I found myself doing my tables, spelling big words and going insane whilst throwing apples in a bag. This must be when I put an extra apple in one of the million bags I packed that just happened to get checked, and I got repremanded by the manager. I had visions of the extra one in his mouth as he rotated on a little spit. I was really going mad, and glum as glum could be. We tried not to drink much in the evening as we would have to cross the deserted dark farm to get to the toilet. Though sometimes we would squat on the edge of the pear orchard. So don't buy Tesco pears - haha, we'd get them back :)
But after one week, we had had enough, we just couldn't take it anymore, and topless waitressing shined in the sunshine. Not really, I'm just being dramatic. But it was tough - I take my hat off to those ladies who work damn hard! So we were 'rescued' by our lively knight, Ryan from Pamplona, in a red Punto and were whisked away to Leyton Buzzard, to spend the weekend in a little country home that was beautiful. It was a lovely weekend to shake off the apple farm slump, but we were still in a rather pathetic situation but much more enthusiastic about it...
So to have a snooty, silver-spoon-up-orriface man finally give the go ahead to our job on the apple farm, with pay and accomodation the instant we returned, we were thrilled. And the lengthy struggle to get in there must lend it some credibility...
So we were collected from the airport by the wonderful Lesley, and returned to their home for a night. We were going to visit friends Kylie met on her Contikki trip before departing on the monday for the farm in Kent. This was quite fun - rather hilarious actually... We went to a German pub in the evening for a very good reason - jelly wrestling. Two girls would face eachother in the pit wearing whatever they didn't mind getting drenched (some seemed to mind a whole lot...) and would wrestle in two rounds of this really advanced sport, to be voted by the crowd as to who the winner was. This often included flashing certain bits to up there chances, as winners claimed a £50 bar tab. Rumour has it Kylie partook in this peculiar sport but that's all I'm going to say.
Anyway, so on the monday we hopped on a train and tottled out to the countryside and slumped out with our luggage at a one-street town, it was bitterly cold, and I was growing rather concerned as this was the beginning of May and supposed to be the end of Spring... This must be the villiage the farm borders. No, from here one gets a taxi to the village the farm borders, and then taxis into the farm. So quite far out, we weren't too fussed - we'd become pretty thick-skinned after our travels so we could handle whatever was thrown our way.
We climbed out the taxi choking on the charge and found ourselves infront of a very grey building with a little doorbell that didn't work. Thumping on the door, the weasily little bespectacled secretary who had put me on hold while she ate her breakfast, combed her hair etc numerous times peered at us through the glass door before opening it. 'Hi, I'm here to see James Simpson.' 'Mr Simpson?' 'Well ok then, if James is out' Sigh, that one went over her head. Apparently we were to wait outside in the chill for a big guy called 'Steven', who would show us around. He lumbered over and introduced himself as he lead us to our accommodation so that we could leave our bags. Leaning his full weight against the handle, our caravan, yes c-a-r-a-v-a-n shuddered as the narrow door creaked open. I think all doors in caravans are really narrow because if they were any wider, the cardboard they make them out of would crumple at the lack of support.
So we peered into the musty 'lounge', using the term most loosely you understand, and down the 'passage' which doubled up as a kitchen, toward the master bedroom, hehehe, and to the far 'wall', all about 5 metres. So we optimistically threw in our bags and tried not to think of the weird fact that our caravan was a tad lonely - where did all the other fun, lively students stay? Next it was to the ablutions, hoho, teehehe, that were an 800m walk - to one toilet and one shower thingy, that was shared by all the other people who lived on the farm. Note - bring own toilet paper. He showed us the pack house where we were to meet him the following morning and said good bye. We had already discovered that it would be apple 'packing', before apple 'picking' at the end of the summer. Leaving us in the middle of the day rather baffled. So we ambled back to our shell and searched the cupboards for anything resembling a cup, a spoon or a plate. Nothing. No radio, no TV. So we sat and looked at eachother for some time, looked a little more and were saved by the arrival of a car later in the afternoon.
A very afrikaans man hopped out, 'Stefan', and asked if our caravan was ok and in order? I'm not quite sure what this would mean - in my opinion it would never really be 'in order' but at least he resurrected the bar fridge lying down in the lounge and got it working. He said he'd be back later with a few plates and things and could drop us off at the shops on his way to gym and was off. He returned an hour later with some odd remains of cutlery and crockery, two toasters and things we weren't sure what to do with, but we smiled and thanked him and hopped in the car to go buy silly little things from the shops like a pillow and some budget food.
Now although we were both too proud to admit it at such an early stage, our first day did not leave a happy impression, but we'd have work the next day and would be ok once we met some people. So bored as anything, we climbed into bed and froze as we slept in our cardboard box. Neither of us slept from the cold so work was a bit of a dreary thought, but we got ourselves together and went to the pack house. We did find a heater the following night but were too afraid to leave it on during the night for fear of us catching alight.
At the pack house we met the other people on the farm - Iliana, Katalana, Diana, Milana, etc-ana - we only know the names from the role call, no none of them could speak any English - honestly I tried. A bus came in every morning from town to drop the Latvians off. The mojority of them were over 40 and had a permanent snarl and peculiar smelling hair. We were assigned pack lines and told our job - apples come on conveyor belt, sort bad from good, toss the bad and put good in packets - 8 in each. And that was it. It did not deviate in the slightest. That was it. We were stationed at our own lines and the apples never stopped coming. Unless you were in fast forward mode, you were up to your eyeballs in apples. I tried throwing them back up the ramp, eating them, hiding them, packing more in a bag but they still kept coming - like Micky mouse and the brooms. Anyway, by the end of the first day, our wrists and backs ached and we were rather miserable. The problem was, as we had no money at all as we spent it getting there and buying food for the week, we had nothing to do, nowhere to go and no choice but to stay there. Gone were our little romantic images of a chubby happy farmer's wife calling us 'mischief-makers' in for some fresh apple pie and cream. This was mini Auschwitz, the apple farm in hell. For breakfast and lunch we had marmite toast, and for dinner it was scrambled egg on toast, if we were lucky.
We spent most of the day in solitude, working amongst people who we could not speak to, getting home with nothing really to talk about - we'd exhausted all that in our backpacking, so we just kind of existed. After a few days, although we knew exactly what to do, it never got easier on our bodies or our minds - I found myself doing my tables, spelling big words and going insane whilst throwing apples in a bag. This must be when I put an extra apple in one of the million bags I packed that just happened to get checked, and I got repremanded by the manager. I had visions of the extra one in his mouth as he rotated on a little spit. I was really going mad, and glum as glum could be. We tried not to drink much in the evening as we would have to cross the deserted dark farm to get to the toilet. Though sometimes we would squat on the edge of the pear orchard. So don't buy Tesco pears - haha, we'd get them back :)
But after one week, we had had enough, we just couldn't take it anymore, and topless waitressing shined in the sunshine. Not really, I'm just being dramatic. But it was tough - I take my hat off to those ladies who work damn hard! So we were 'rescued' by our lively knight, Ryan from Pamplona, in a red Punto and were whisked away to Leyton Buzzard, to spend the weekend in a little country home that was beautiful. It was a lovely weekend to shake off the apple farm slump, but we were still in a rather pathetic situation but much more enthusiastic about it...
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