Naz

The shining beacon of my disenchanted retail existence, a Turkish rude boy with a heart of the most precious platinum, gold and cushion cut Swarovski.

We shared a mutual love of sour candies, and on our breaks from work or when we got bored of putting t-shirts on hangers, we bought Pic’n’Mix bags from Woolworths or mini Haribos from the off-license to surreptitiously share. I had Sour Patch Kids and Sour Cherry Blasters shipped out from Canada and when he got hooked he would trek down to the Canadian market off Leicester Square and pay double the price for a bag of Fuzzy Peaches.

On sunny summer days, we had lunch in Notting Hill parks, drinking Strongbow, smoking cigarettes and eating Walker’s Ready Salted crisps. He would outline his plan to built a house in Turkey and move there with his girlfriend, renting it out in the summer to maintain his life in the UK, preferably selling fake Nike sneakers and knockoff designer bags at the Portobello Market. With his former experience in stolen cell phone dealing, he already knows his way around the business a bit.

One afternoon he watched a child plummet fourteen stories from a kitchen window of a council flat. He died on impact at Nazmi’s feet. He explained to me later that he had been retrieving a parcel of oily black hashish from his Kappa sock, and the stooping motion had prevented him from being hit by the falling boy. He didn’t really feel like smoking after that.

Nathan

Old before his time, condescending in the utmost, incomprehensibly loved by many, asexually approached. He wears skinny jeans with the cuffs rolled up, exposing several inches of sock between his loafers and the hem. The socks are always colour coordinated to his t shirt and he walks with a rat-like expression on his face and his glasses perched over a thin moustache and even thinner lips. His cheeks bloom like the English rose his mother might have been, and he walks in a quick forward trajectory - almost a shuffle - with his head leading and a hint of a stooped back predicting his future form.

He spent a year in China teaching English to under-privileged children, which I felt was his primary redeeming feature when looking for any qualities in him that would counter the way he ignored me if I approached him in query or conversation, how he evaded conversation with new hires except to briefly and brusquely call them out on minor infractions, how he appropriated my West Coast slang and mannerisms with no awareness of whence they came.

I avoid him at all costs. Occasionally the previous-night’s indulgences would crash over me in the new day’s paranoia, sending me cowering in corners when the whippet-thin Nathan approached. He is the least like anyone I would aspire to be: demeaning, ingratiatingly sweet with an aftertaste like Splenda to customers, business oriented and dismissive.

However, his favourite film as a child was Fantasia and he and his brother would practice the Russian mushroom dance together in his Nan’s living room. I liked that about him, and in the last few weeks before I fled Portobello he started calling me “V.”

London lite

Adele came in to work today to visit my favourite coworker/her videographer who is leaving on her US tour later this month - all expenses paid, plus a weekly allowance and all access passes to Bonnaroo. She was really chill and carrying the sort of Chanel handbag that's real but looks fake, something that Louis Vuitton has been specializing in since the early 00s.

I love all the celebrity sightings in Portobello. The paparazzi wear suits and carry telephoto lenses the length of my arm to train on Lily Allen and Helena Bonham Carter, Norman Cook and Ian Brown.

Kelly Rowland has come in a few times - on weekdays in sweatpants and a ponytail, on weekends with four inch heels, five inch extensions and two inch nails and lashes (for the cameras). Shaznay from All Saints was in twice last week for some casual clothes and Minnie Driver spilled her pregancy news as I helped her pick out some tunic-lenth tees.

It's easy to keep an eye out for the prime international targets, and the London daily rags are basically a flimsy paper Facebook of who to look out for in the market on weekends.

The market itself is a zoo. All the locals know to come on Fridays since tourists aren't told that it's open any day outside of Saturday. The antique books and prints and bric a brac have gouged a hole in my lunch money and I come back from my breaks with more skeleton keys and crane-shaped sewing scissors than egg-and-cress sandwiches.

As fun as weekends are, the security is also the toughest. We double our staff and the security guards are on high alert for the petty crooks and hustlers working on behalf of local gangs. The worst are the Spice Girls, a ring of 40+ immense black women in fluo spandex and fishnet monstrosities.

They come in pairs, usually with their kids in tow and a pram to stow their gear. They're exceedingly rough and ask obvious questions to distract the sales staff while the other stuffs racks full of clothing into the baby carriage. They favour all things shiny and metallic and use their children and their toothless mugs as deterrents to our protests.

The latest security guard, a tall, scrawny Nigerian who performs magic tricks during the lulls and chases children around the store, has had his pride wounded lately as stacks of clothing have gone missing while his back is turned. He's taken to hiding behind the racks near the side door so it looks like the store is empty, to lure the thieves in, wherein he will leap out from behind the clothes and nab them.

This week he caught the Spice Girls in the act near the back of the store, with some PVC skirts peeking out of their purses. When he confronted them, they lashed out and beat him loudly and roundly to the ground in front of the Saturday crowds. While one ripped at his shirt, another stole his watch and their diversion-tactic spawn kicked him in the shins. They made off before the police could even consider forging a path through the scrum of weekend shoppers.

After filing a report and accepting a shirt from the shop floor, he left and we haven't seen him since. It's sad because lately he's been on an apple kick for lunch - eating two or three at a time - and he left an entire grocery bag full of fruit near the fridge and we don't know what to do with it (or why he brought thirty apples with him that day in the first place).

Six degrees

Slow days at work can be measured in how many movie connections we make. There is a game that goes around the store where two seemingly unrelated actors are linked by the tenuous connection of costars in former feature films.

Today's surprise stumpers were "Former boy band members Mark Wahlberg and Justin Timberlake" and "Knighted actors Ian McKellen and Ben Kingsley." Inexplicably, almost every pairing this week crossed through a film starring Liv Tyler or Tom Cruise.


After the unforseeably arduous process of renting a place in East London, our lease was accepted today, which was some cause for celebration. Everything was finally coming together with Jo's finances sorted out and my payday coinciding with the afternoon that we needed to put down one-month upfront and six-weeks deposit.

Or would have coincided had I lived in Canada where pay is doled out every two weeks, rather than once a month. So the pittance that I have dutifully earned is not mine for the spending for another three weeks, including the minimum wage that I worked for to pay the rent and deposit so we could pick up the keys.

Maddox, Movida, Mexico

Work began at 10am, but I arrived at 830am, thinking that I was due at 9. To pass the time, I breakfasted on my New York Dolls coworker's McVities and made a Folgers Instant in the back room with some hot water and fresh milk. I've noticed that the labels always list "fresh milk" and I'm not sure what to make of it. If they have to advertise that a refrigerated dairy product is "fresh" then what are they compensating for?

An unwashed strawberry blond came in wearing an ancient parka and some filthy runners. I'm not used to seeing honest disparity after a month in Notting Hill. He was really hyped on the Del Tha Funkee Homosapien playing overhead and complimented us on our taste in music the way diners give their compliments to the chef. None of us remembered putting Del in the sound system, so we gave credit to my skinniest colleague, the one who wears jeans rolled up with a turtleneck tucked in and who was propositioned by a high ranking member of British parliament at an early age.

Filthy went on to explain how under appreciated Del is, except in LA which is a great city. One of the best he's ever seen in America or anywhere, and he's seen a few cities. I asked him when he planned to return and he didn't know. He's not welcome in the country because he was arrested for "looking like a guy with a criminal record who also happened to have my name. It didn't help that I had drugs on me at the time." He said he might sneak back in after a year's time, when he'd settled on a new identity. I must have had an incredulous look on my face and he explained that his friend had a similar problem being deported from Australia for ketamine trafficking. He changed his name and got a new bank account and passport and returned a year later as Andrew-Mark On-Ket. Clever.

I should have held my tongue when I joked about finding him a good spot along the river to cross from Mexico.


Coffee and orange juice for lunch. I met with one of the West End's busier promoters to hear his plans for a night sponsored by ... a chocolate manufacturer and a CGI programming firm. We'd scheduled and rescheduled this coffee for weeks and he had a choice of cappuccino and fresh squeezed laid out when I arrived. My coworkers always come back from lunch with stories of starters, mains and puddings, and they were yet again unimpressed with my culinary selections.

A samoyed sat nearby with a pram and an unattentive Notting Hill nanny. I don't really care for dogs but this one was essentially a giant white smiling cat, and I eyed it from a distance because I miss my pets.

Scrambled egg for dinner. Jo cooked, as usual, and I ran upstairs to fix my hair. On the way home I picked up a dress for the last-minute masquerade party in the West End that I had no mask for. I'd been eyeing a yellow silk strapless for a week, planning on picking it up for just such an occassion and somehow walked out with a black knife pleated halter frock cut to the knee. I think I justified a simple dress as a mask would overwhelm a stronger outfit. Anyhow, I haven't worn a dress that long since 2003 and I left it in a pile for the silk strapless aubergine that I'd worn to a cocktail club a few weeks before, still fiending for the jaundiced minidress in the shop window.

I hopped the bus into town in my glamourous kit with time to spare as I still hadn't acquired a mask and I had visions of cobbling something together with found items at the grocery store. An unctuous acquaintance who seems to sprint in West End circles agreed to bring a spare. He purchased it in Norfolk during his senior year for a Venician-themed party, which he regretably could not attend as his online erotica empire was busted by Scotland Yard the night before, and his parents grounded him for the weekend.

Coincidence and some well-timed text messages intervened at Regent and Argyll with the promoter, his girlfriend, a Columbian coffee trader and a model scout. We entered through the side door of some exclusive, unmarked members-only and descended into a lounge that can only be described as first class on an overnight Virgin Atlantic flight from New York to London. All light boxes and white leather and glowing strips of purple and orange along what would have been the skirting boards if places like this ever used non-synthetic materials.

My mask arrived and after conversation about vacationing in Monaco and Spain, we took our coats and took to the balmy streets of Mayfair. The great thing about London that everyone tells me and that I fully accept is that every district is a village of its own and you can walk from one place to the next like its a giant food court and you've decided that you're going to have both the Mexi fries and the A&W Teen burger for lunch. In the West End, all with some well-heeled friends, well-heeled shoes and a ladies' cigarette if you're smoking, the jetlagged-tourist-on-the-town look can be easily avoided.

Soon enough we were tucked into another white leather banquette with a glowing light box laid out with Moet & Chandon, watching a fashion show lit by "nouveau baroque" chandeliers and Kliegs. Posh Tim's latest girlfriend, a darling Swedish model, arrived in jeans, t-shirt and toque when everyone else was in fancy dress. While he and I seldom speak outside of night's out, I regularly trade numbers with his dates.

Finally, tired and hungry, I shared a black cab back to Notting Hill. I picked up a £2.50 kebab, said yes to all the toppings and scarfed it down on the way home, where I wearily wriggled out of my tiny dress and stepped into some Cowichan knits and a sense of normality. Beautiful.

Roberto Cavalli

Have already settled into a short-term flat outside Notting Hill with a weekly maid and two floors of high ceilings, wide windows and skylights. Turned down a job at a club in Camden as the owner admitted that he wanted to kill himself during the interview, and took a retail job in Portobello instead. Drank at one of Prince Harry's favoured clubs and attended a party in Mayfair hosted by Roberto Cavalli, who poured my champagne as I beamed in my Johnson Street shoes and dress.

Celebrity sightings abound (Liam Gallagher, Kelly Rowland, Nigel Barker, Nole Marin, the Geldoff girls, Agyness Deyn, Sienna Miller and Spandeau Ballet so far) and I finally found a Jewish-looking AA hoodie and leather jacket in the crowds at Movida, the red carpet and paparazzi-covered club that we've been invited to more often than we understand.

I don't want to admit that I'm overwhelmed by all that has happened in the two weeks that we've been in town. It all began on our third night in London when I'd slept off my jetlag and wanted to see the city. I had heard of Yo Yo at the Notting Hill Arts Club, so Jo and I dolled up and set out, only to be intercepted by a posh boy named Tim inviting us to a party. When we arrived, we found our hostess was the daughter of a lord and lady, the guests all drove Ducatis and there were designer shoes and chocolates everywhere. Since then, our Knightsbridge catalyst has brought us everywhere and introduced us to everyone who can help us start our lives here.

I remember telling Jo (the novice celebrity gossip fiend) not to worry; I'd find us some glamourous adventures during our four months in London. It seems it's already begun!