Tubulaaaar bells
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So, the more I come back to london the more I like it. I love the tube. Even though it makes me claustrophobic, I love the way it works. People switch to automatic pilot and they all have this "look at me and I will kill you" expression on their face. Everyone (except us out-of-towners/village people) does something to occupy themselves so that they never have to make eye contact with anyone. Whereas me, I sit there like a kid at a sweet shop and study every single person in my carriage and wonder where they've been and what they do with their lives.

Rule Britannia, Brittania rules not much....
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Amsterdam is pretty multicultural, but in London, you can go pretty much all day and not hear anyone speak English. This is good for me because the more often I come back here, the more I realise that I simply just do not get England anymore. I find all the different English accents hard to understand (scary!) and I simply cannot stand queuing anymore. Tonight, we waited about three minutes "to be seated" at a restaurant and I almost had a fit. I also find myself laughing out loud like Jane Eyre's mad -woman-in-the-attic at the continuous announcements everywhere you go...in the lift "doors are closing/opening/lift is going up/down/do not smoke in the lift/doors will open shortly/press button to go up or down" (no SHIT! Really? Thanks!!!). The best sign I saw today was "There are 192 stairs down to the Northern Line. Anyone caught urinating in this stairwell will be dealt with by the police". I almost felt like dropping my pants and seeing how fast the coppers came running. Ahem. But I am a Lady. Apparently. So I didn't do it.

Amsterdam meets Cheshire
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Randomly, Tim (B (from BAD) is also in London for a course and it's his birthday so I met up with him at Canary Wharf and had dinner with Lou and Swirly...which was quite odd, since I have known Lou and Swirly since I was three years old and the three off us spent the entire evening ripping the piss out of each other as per usual. Tim dealt with it all very well though, and we had an incredibly garlic fueled meal at some investment-wankerish-Italian restaurant to celebrate Tim's birthday. Almost came to blows with the ginger one about how to pronounce something in Italian and then asked the waiter for confirmation (and had to admit I was wrong. Grrrrowl). Then Swirly claimed "jet lag" and went home. Lou, Tim and I went to another bar where I promptly and predictably spilled an entire glass of vin rouge over Louise's expensive corporate-whore trousers. Oops. But you know what, I bet my wine cost more than the dry cleaning does. HAHAHAHAHA. I was well pissed off. Six quid down the drain. Or on the floor. Or actually, all over ONE of my brown boots. Now it's a different colour than the other one. Humph.