Fake addresses

I used to pal around with this kid from Central St Martins that hung around the skate park, stalked foxes (the British equivalent of raccoons) and never had a cell phone because he was the most broke person I've known since my own arrival to the City.

We would lurk around Hampstead Heath on Thursday nights eating Sainsbury's pies and buying matches for underage smokers and sit in Tower Hamlet council estates until sunrise.

The last time I spoke to him, I had returned from a week in Barcelona to find our resident mouse dead on my duvet. It had climbed into one of the perspex boxes that I used to sort my makeup and expired in a pile of Bourjois blush and cuticle oil. My impoverished pal would have come to Settles Street to stuff it and wear it as a trophy if I had given him my address, but in the end I put the transparent coffin and the bed sheets in the trash outside and said a little prayer for the rodent's family.

He painted me on a mirror and swore he would break it before it was finished. I can't tell if I'm offended or honoured and I feel a little arrogant putting it online.



Source: Oszar (UK)

No avocados

Bright sunny morning in Angel. I unfurled myself from an unfamiliar couch following a late night reunion of the whole motley Canadian crew - a textiles designer, a hot mess and a colleague from our gallery im Gastown. A backyard barbecue, an incognito male model and a turntable stacked with house would be the overarching themes of the evening.

Enjoyed breakfast in the garden with my lovely hostess and reluctantly left the house wearing the previous night's all-black, goth-lite mini dress, tights and plimsolls.

My high school friend Jules was in town for the weekend, returning from a family vacation in Barcelona. We met Angel for milkshakes and burgers, and a sun dress so I could justify going to a picnic in a park rather than a scenester's funeral.

With little money to my name after the robbery, I was nervous about shopping in the pretty, boutique-lined high street but we cobbled together a £4 oversized pinney and hot pants affair and ventured into deepest Hackney.

Enjoyed too many apple sausages on the homemade coal barbecue in the sun at Victoria Park with the widest gamut of 24-inch waist East Londoners imaginable strewn across a variety of blankets on the vast expanse of lawn.

Having Jules around has been a saving grace. We spent an afternoon in Kensington drinking champagne and eating organic food near Hyde Park discussing steel drums and DJ sets, Japanese literature and charitable work. Between him and our Canadian family, I'm feeling happier and getting excited for my move to Brick Lane at the end of the week.

Jo and I found a sick apartment with hardwood floors, high ceilings, a vintage bathroom with tiled floors and an art store that would put Opus to shame around the corner. It costs more than my family's mortgage back in BC, which would make it a fair price for the cost of living and the gentrifying neighbourhood that we've been perving on for ages. All it needs are some signature pieces on the wall and a fully stocked wardrobe and I'm set to Settle for the summer.