We’ve just hit March- 3 months into the new year and in the Uk, it has rained 95% of the time.
Unlike others, I can’t blame my parents. I came to London almost 2 years ago, all on my own accord. I chose to sacrifice Sydney’s sun and morning coffee walks with my dog for life on the other side of the coin.
Here, the grass is always greener; however no one seems to be able to afford it.
When I first arrived, I chose the most central location I could find — a hostel in Kensington’s Royal Borough.
I spent my days wandering around these tall, chiselled houses, each wearing the same crisp white shirt — most likely to match their owner’s blue-collar jobs. Big bay windows begged you to peer in, only for an incredibly ornate vase to obscure your view.
Each street wore the same look. Only waiters, cleaners, tourists, or delivery people busied themselves outside. I loved to watch them, like little ants.
Rich people must be too busy to walk, I remember thinking. The Tube is where the rest of us exist, under London’s freshly laundered rug.
The Kensington coffee shops and eateries were stupidly priced and, even then, the food didn’t have much taste. I tried to enjoy the British pubs, as everyone had raved about how they were the best part, but they felt too sticky and dark.
The heart of London appeared polished, photogenic, and yet deeply unapproachable — even people with dogs seemed vexed if you offered them your hand.
I remember seeing grown men in suits on the back of Lime bikes, cycling past on their lunch breaks. When you looked at their faces, it was as if they had never met a smile.
After that month, I was happy to try somewhere else.
Where To Live
Over my first year, I moved five times. I didn’t realise that only once you have a job with a salary that’s 30 times your rent, can you apply for a room in a flatshare — and even then, only if you fit into that price bracket.
If you choose to live in a safer neighbourhood, your London flat probably has mould or is a little tight.
Or you could do what I did and choose to live in a nicer place in a scarier neighbourhood.
With the government’s crippling debt, it often feels like London pinches your pockets while you sleep. Rent, phone bills, cars on finance, council tax, and replacing your favourite pair of shoes ruined by the rain mean that London is insatiable.
Soon, you enter circles that make similar numbers to your own — that way, you can frequent the same social gatherings, holidays, and weddings together.
The rest of us who arrive late to the party rarely make British friends unless we have British partners who grant us access.
Soho Club is one of many private members’ clubs throughout London where you’re allowed in on account of your status and your bank account. Class is a sticky subject, but people see it the minute you walk into a room.
At the ripe age of 28, London is the first place where I lost a potential friend for not earning enough.
Cyclical People
Londoners seem to live their lives in cycles. The first week of every month is thrilling as paycheques roll in, followed by a slow souring as the month drags on.
Every year, wardrobes change seasonally — from high-neck jumpers and puffer coats in autumn and winter to spring and summer sundresses and seashell slides.
The weather seems to dictate how people live, with seasonal depression inviting bed-rotting and increased drinking, while the sun employs run clubs, brunches, and late nights out to spike the hospitality sector.
Bursting at the Seams
London makes you not think twice about taking that dirty seat on the Tube — on account of, at least you have one.
It teaches you to walk with aggressive purpose and push your way through the swarm of people to get through that door. And if you wait politely to the side, then you win the consolation prize of arriving late to work.
London is bursting with people — you queue for everything, even rejection. Job applications are another chance of being humbled, with Indeed reminding you that ‘2,000 people have also applied’ for that one position.
Going to work begins by standing hot and layered in a speeding, pill-shaped box full of people, where we pretend we can’t see or hear the first, third, or fifth homeless person preaching poverty.
When I first arrived, I worked at a pub (a true Aussie-in-London experience), and I remember one night a lady came in crying because her phone was dead, with all her cards on it, and she didn’t have a charger.
I gave her a hug, a glass of water, and listened. “I’m sorry, I don’t have money or a charger, but maybe the next pub along could help?”
“Money?” she said. “I don’t need money — I probably have more money than you.”
I stepped back, confused. She gave a short laugh before continuing her spiral about getting home. I felt annoyed and hid behind the bar for the rest of my shift.
After living here for almost 2 years, I can honestly say London is a place you don’t come to relax.
It’s the place you leave after you pay too much tax.
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