I like writing people letters.

So at the beginning of this year I got hold of my mates’ addresses, bought a load of envelopes and stamps and decided to start sending them things in the post.

I’m a bit rubbish with remembering birthdays, so usually it’d just be random cards saying hi, or thank you, or crappy Valentine’s Day from Oscar the Grouch; or congratulating them on not killing their first outdoor plant, but occasionally there’d be one to commemorate something really really important or a momentous life event.

diary april

Everyone likes getting post, but not everyone can be bothered to send it.

The only stuff most of us get in the post now are letters from the Student Loan Company, or, as I like to call them, the Quarterly Statements of Disappointment, and council tax reminders, and phone bills charging you for the iPhone 5 you dropped down the toilet last year.

Also, most people who live in London rent and move around a lot, so no one gets post because no one except your parents really knows where you’re living now, and to be honest, neither do we, most of the time.

So although I sort of hoped to get the occasional letter back, mostly I just liked to think of mates coming home after a crap day at work, seeing an envelope with their name on it, and forgetting their nightmare commute for a minute – and maybe despairing a little bit at their friend’s lack of artistic card making skills*.

*apologies to anyone who recently received my limited edition “you as a stickman drawn with a felt tip” series.

letters left in london1

And then this week I found Letters Left in London

It’s a project started by an anonymous person who lives in London, who’s basically been writing lots of friendly letters to strangers in the city and leaving them around the place for people to find, which is a loads better way to spend your morning than scowling at people who annoy you on the tube.

It’s nice, and it’s sweet, and sometimes that’s just what London needs.

In their own words:

I write notes, letters, little quotes, poems, etc and deposit them anonymously in public places for people to find, hopefully to bring a bit of warmth to people as they go about their day. Letters telling them how awesome they are, extracts from moving poems, messages of hope.

letters left in london 2

I sort of wish I’d thought of it. 

Not only is it a nice thing to do for people you don’t know, but it’s also a better idea than sending letters to friends in the post because this way you don’t have to pay for stamps.

On which note, thanks, Royal Mail, for making my nice idea a surprisingly expensive one. 

Anyway, the Letters Left in London are all being posted here, which is good because unlike emails, written words don’t automatically save to your sent items, and you can also follow the project on Twitter.

So go! Quick! Send your fellow Londoners stuff in envelopes*! Today! Your city dwelling friends need you.

*They’d probably really appreciate money, but cards will do. 

In October I went to Reykjavik.

It wasn’t meant to happen.

I was travelling on my own, and planned to go straight to see my mate in Boston, then over to New York. But then I found out I could get a free stopover if I went via Iceland on the way, so I thought, why not?

Then I didn’t give it much more thought until the flight, where the general theme seemed to be don’t you dare turn up in our country without knowing some basic phrases.

iceland air seats

I’m not big on reading about places before I get there.

This is mostly because I’m lazy, but also because I enjoy the element of surprise when you turn up and don’t know where your hotel is. Or in the case of Iceland, where anything is.

Anything at all.

Seriously, Iceland.

Where is everything?

nothing down there

Iceland: big in the lava game

As such, I didn’t really know what to expect.

But I had a sneaking suspicion my trip might involve three things:

1) slipping on ice because I failed to bring shoes with any grip

2) volcano-related travel disruption

3) sustained periods of hunger, because sitting in a hotel room rationing out mini bar peanuts would arguably be less of an ordeal than walking into a restaurant and mustering the words “table for one”.

iceland geysir

Happily, none of these things happened.

Instead, I found myself in a country with 80,000 horses, 328,000 people, a lot less ice than the name would suggest, hot water coming straight out of the ground - literally, see above – and an anti-incest app so locals can check if the person they’re flirting with is actually their sister.

Oh, and I also found  “meat soup” on the menu, which, despite its ambiguous name, is deliciously comforting when eaten in any situation, but particularly when hungry, tired and on your own.

Basically, Iceland was brilliant.

In some ways, it was even better than London. And this is why.

meat soup for one

Meat soup for one, bitches

The locals are unfathomably friendly.

The more I travel, the more I realise that the best way to spot Londoners abroad is to look for the people walking round slack jawed and wide eyed with amazement, frantically mouthing “but everyone here is just so nice!” to each other.  

You never hear tourists saying that in London, which has led me to conclude that Londoners are probably friendly to other Londoners, and the rest, well… they all sort of just walk too slowly and get in the way.

In Iceland, no one’s annoyed at you when you get in the way. They are polite. And welcoming. And patient.

For example, not one person pushed this man into a puddle for using his iPad as a camera. Not one.

ipad in iceland

Even lost property is carefully looked after.

In London, lost gloves get kicked about, shoved on a wall and then eaten by a team of fiercely howling pit bulls in Dagenham.

In Reykjavik, lost gloves get collected together, put next to the other lost gloves and signed up for a speed dating initiative.

It’s beautiful.

In Iceland, (g)love never dies.

single gloves speed dating

Then there are all the horses.

Oh, the horses.

Like I said, there are 80,000 of the little scamps milling about the place, and all of them seem extraordinarily happy with their lot.

Icelandic horses don’t muck about; there’s none of this plodding, lazy, oh-do-we-have-to mentality you get in the riding schools at home. If anything, this lot are massive overachievers.

Not content with walk, trot, canter and gallop, Icelandic horses came up with a couple more gaits to keep themselves occupied, like “tölt” and “pace”. This makes them the most comfortable things to sit on this side of IKEA.

And in Iceland, you guessed it, the horses just want to share a bit of love, too.

friendly horses

If you’re not into horses, there’s always the swimming pools.

With all the hot water steaming about underground, Iceland’s pretty big on outdoor swimming.

From what I gathered it’s less about actual swimming and more lying around in hot water having a chat, which pretty much sounds like something my dad – who also enjoys “swimming”, where “swimming” means “doing laps of the jacuzzi.” – could probably get on board with.

Anyway, one of Iceland’s most celebrated geothermal pools is the Blue Lagoon, which has a constant temperature of around 37-39 degrees all year round.

It’s also full of minerals which you can slather on your face and wallow about in for hours while the sky goes “watch me now!” and does nice colours.


Of course, we’ve got outdoor pools in London too.

Except here we call them “lidos” or “ponds”, and generally, they come with medical warnings against disease and hypothermia.

Observe the public health warning helpful information on the website of London’s most celebrated pools ponds, Hampstead Heath.


Finally, I think you can tell a lot about a country from the signs in its airport.

For example, Sydney Airport is covered in signs reminding people not to crack hilarious jokes about the bombs they don’t have in their luggage.

Boston Airport – and in fact any airport in America – has signs warning you not to do anything except look like a white, Caucasian male in possession of a US passport, and in London most of the signs just tell you where you can and can’t queue.

Over in Keflavík, Iceland’s International Airport, their main concern is that people just won’t want to go home.


And after two days in this excellent country, I don’t entirely blame them.

Sorry, London. I’m home now. I’ll blog about you next time.

Disclaimer: if you follow me on Twitter you’ve probably already seen this.

In which case, please accept this kneeling goat as an apology.


He is sorry. As am I.

But I put a project together for work and I like it, obviously, so by my powers of deduction, if you’re reading this then it probably means you:

a) like London

b) have some time on your hands

c) enjoy reading things on the internet

d) have recently had either me / one of my friends / my mum / my dad standing next you at a party refusing to top up your wine glass until you’ve put this website address into your phone and promised to look at it when you get home (thanks guys).

In which case, you might like it, too.

So this is 100 things in London.

The long and the short of it is: if you don’t learn something bout London after clicking on each and every thing on that page, then I’ll give you your money back.

(Not really. But only because it’s free).


It took us ages to put together, and people I know through Twitter and blogging helped, as well as tour guides, historians, and the marketing bods at London’s big and little known places.

So thanks to Yannick, Flora at Accidental Londoner, Mark at The Importance of Being Trivial, Simon at Hackney Tours, Mike from London Historians, the nice people at 1000 Londoners, and loads of others who sent brilliant things to my inbox in the name of educating the world / internet (ish).

If that’s not incentive enough, the finished result includes not only a horse, gorilla, water vole, and an otter, but also a walrus.

Anyway. I hope you enjoy it, and if you do, tell your friends. Preferably by standing over them with a large stick, waving it around in a threatening manner until they look at it and click “like”.

Only joking.

Sort of. 

Subscribe to She Loves London by e-mail here. Or don’t.

It’s annoying that September’s over.

Firstly because I can no longer legitimately get away with saying “it’s my birthday” in October, but also because it’s getting dark which means I’ll have to stop walking home along the Regent’s canal in the evening.

Strictly speaking, I don’t have to stop.

It is indeed my right as a human person to continue walking home even when it’s dark or cold or a bit rainy – but let’s face it, walking along an unlit stretch of canal just isn’t as good in the pitch black.

And when I say isn’t as good, what I mean is “not as safe because I might get set upon by a predator lurking in the shadows”.

You know, just so we’re clear.

Granted, before it got dark, there were other things to be wary of.

Such as:

  • Falling in
  • People who can’t walk in a straight line
  • Wonky neck syndrome while going under bridges
  • Angry swans
  • Idiots
  • Idiots on Boris Bikes
  • Flying jogger sweat
  • Guilt that everyone else is exercising and you’re not
  • Cyclist bells

In fact, there’s a bit of an unspoken war on the tow path between cyclists and walkers. But that was almost what attracted me in the first place.

canal geese

This was my first summer of being able to walk home from work. 

Before this, I’d look longingly out of the bus window and see all these enraged cyclists driving up the rear of walkers along that skinny little tiny towpath, furiously ringing their stupid bells as if they’ve got right of way (they haven’t), and think I want to be one of those people getting in the way of cyclists too.

Then I moved jobs and finally it would take me 55 minutes to walk instead of 2347897345 hours – so all through spring and summer, it’s been a little high point of my day. I could become one of those indignant walkers with Right Of Way.

So it’s been good, the walk home. All that mucky green water, seeing loads of dogs, watching geese attack each other, marvelling at the amount of people who seemingly have nothing better to do with their day than sit alongside the canal drinking Red Stripe on a Wednesday, peering into houseboats, it’s been a lovely time.

But I’m afraid it’s goodbye for winter, Regent’s Canal. You dangerous dark place, you*.

(*Unless it’s the daytime at weekends. Then it’s fine.)

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I work in Farringdon.

Or maybe it’s Clerkenwell.

Farrenwell? Clerkendon?

I’m not totally sure what the difference is between the two, but I really like it here in EC1.

I’ve decided to write about it because I’m not really going on Facebook any more, so this is my new platform for making people wish they were me.

Plus, it’s not like you can just rock up to Clerkenwell at the weekend and expect to discover the brilliance.

It’s all over by then.

Done. Finished. Kaput.

And I’m a little bit worried you’re missing out.


Clerkenwell is a Monday to Friday type place.

In that sense it’s a bit like Victoria or Aldgate or Bank, but without the briefcase wielding, red wine-cheeked buffoons milling around yelling “BUY BUY BUY, SELL SELL SELL”.

Plus, no one here would be seen dead using a Blackberry.

As a single lady, it’s difficult not to notice all the men.

They aren’t the estate agent types you get in Angel; they don’t have the TV tans of Soho, and there’s a little less hat action going on compared to down the road in Shoreditch.

In Clerkenwell, you get the strong, aloof types.

You get a man who doesn’t even flinch while accompanying his girlfriend down Hatton Garden, past 30 different shops selling diamond engagement and wedding rings at competitive prices, only to come out the other side bearing nothing but a caramel flavoured iced coffee and a croissant from EAT.

But most importantly, you get a man who isn’t afraid to rock up to the office in rolled up jeans and a pair of pool slides.

pool slides

Casual. Barefoot. That’s just how they roll.

But the best thing about working around here is lunchtime.

To be fair, the best thing about working anywhere is usually lunchtime, but in EC1, lunctime’s especially good because that’s when all these well-jeaned, excellently shod men congregate on Leather Lane, where every weekday from 11am-3pm, there’s a market.

It’s a bit like Westfield shopping centre, except instead of Debenhams, Habitat and Zara you’ve got table tops selling knife sets, last week’s magazines for £1.50 and children’s books; piles of duvets on wooden pallets, stalls hawking Topshop clothes with the labels cut out and Completely Legitimate Longchamp Bags™, and LOADS of food.

Oh, the food.

leather lane market

You’re quids in for food round here, especially if you like falafel.

It’s pretty serious. There’s even a website dedicated to rating the falafel on Leather Lane and an accompanying Twitter account to update you on the area’s latest chickpea dramz.

It’s basically war.


In fact, rumour has it that you can eat a free falafel-based lunch every day from Chick simply by walking past the bloke giving out free samples 14 times in one hour.

Through recent observations, I’ve concluded that this is a genuine lunchtime strategy for some, but for those not relying on handouts, I recommend Victus and Bibo wraps and the Thai green curry man. Worth the queue, every time.

Aside from the market, there’s a few shops too.

The best one is the off licence where the only permanent member of staff appears to be this fairly nonchalant cat.

cat in offlicence

Whenever I pass in the morning, he’s always there.

Busy taking stock, advising customers on this week’s best offers, or as on the day when this photo was taken, on security detail.

If you’re in any doubt as to the versatility of the shops in this area, or perhaps you just really want to impress that special someone in your life, opposite Agent Provocateur and next to Wildabout Flowers, you’ll find a magic shop.

An international Magic Shop.

Where they sell books of spells*, perfect for any romantic occasion.

*I have no idea what they sell in a magic shop. Probably anything you want if it’s really magic.

international magic shopClerkenwell also has a lot of pubs. 

So many pubs.

More pubs than you could ever want or need, located down every road and side street. Pubs, pubs, pubs.

Some have clever yet area specific names like “The Clerk and Well”, while others like The Coach and Horses (Twitter name: Pumpkin and Mice – see what they did there?) focus on providing impeccable value for their many loyal, pissed, and easily confused local workers.

great deal

After all this, I know what you’re thinking.

Firstly, you’re trying to remember how up to date your CV is and how soon you can hand in your notice to come and work where I do.

Secondly, you’re wondering:

If I’ve got an urgent letter to post and it’s after half past 6, aka the normal time for letter collections from post boxes in London, where on Earth can I go to post my letter?”

Ding ding, that’s correct.

Rosebery Avenue, in CLERKENWELL.



Honestly, I’m not sure what else you’d really need.

I hope you are suitably jealous of me working in Farringdon and / or Clerkenwell.

You should be. It’s well good. 

You may return to looking at Facebook now. 

I went to Secret Cinema the other week.

You’ve probably heard of them from all the BBC News coverage this summer.

They recreated the set from Back to the Future next to the Olympic Park in Hackney, charged £53 a ticket and then cancelled the first few shows, ruining lives and wasting thousands of 1950s fancy dress outfits in the process.

Nationwide trauma ensued.

All over the UK, upset BTTF fans wept tears of anguish onto their Facebook page, while everyone on Twitter made fun of them using pithy puns and clever film references.

clever film ref mate

We should also congratulate those who took the much more original route of mocking people who live in Hackney.

roh roh roh hipsters roh

Ah, lolz.

Alas, I was just a casual bystander. 

After attending a brilliant (but slightly pricey) screening of The Third Man back in 2012, I filed Secret Cinema under Things I’d Definitely Do Again – If It Was Free.

This made me immune to the hype, ticket scrum and exhalations of joy that occur whenever people you know attend an event that costs them £53, and you don’t.

Because here’s the thing: Secret Cinema is excellent. It’s very well done, it’s fun, it’s an experience to bore people with for at least two days afterwards – but £53? Yowch. They’ve lost me. I’m out.

You know, unless it’s not £53 and instead it’s free.

Which this time, unexpectedly, it was. I took the ticket in return for my BLOGGING SOUL, which as we’ve established before, is occasionally a fair exchange.

Actually, it was probably free in return for me saying “oh hey look East Village sponsored the whole thing and they’re located next door to the Olympic Park”, but I can handle that.

**Please note: East Village apartments are not free (I asked)**


Aside from not having to pay to get in, avoiding Opening Night Cancellation Trauma, and also seeing the film and all its fancy pants live scenes played out around us – which was well good - there was one other really amazing feature of Secret Cinema’s Back to the Future screening:

The removal of mobile phones.

Lie back for a minute, and try to recall the last time a group of people watched TV without picking up their phone mid way through the programme.

Now – and this one’s tricky – envisage a world where you walk past something brilliant or unusual on the street, and everyone’s just smiling and going “oh cool, look at that” or “can’t believe I’m here!”, and not taking photos with their massive faces plonked front of it.

Case in point.

olympic park selfie

The face, the face. Why so much face?

Impossible to imagine, non?

But this, my friends, is precisely the world that Secret Cinema created under the glare of the Westfield branch of John Lewis.

At first I was a bit skeptical about their motives, because once inside, mobile phone firmly off and away, staff were selling disposable cameras for £6 a pop.

“Oh, come on. At £53 a ticket, they could at least give these away for free.” I proclaimed loudly, as my kind sponsor paid the man and gave me one for free.


But the best was yet to come.

I soon realised why Secret Cinema didn’t give them away for free. Why would you?

They’d realised that in the age of our click-happy hands and 16GB memory cards, disposable cameras were a veritable goldmine.

You see, everyone continued to use their disposable cameras in the same way as their iPhones; snapping ten or fifteen photographs of the same moment in quick succession.

(Granted, winding it on between each shot did slow the pace).

It was a bit strange to watch; this instance of old technology meeting newly wired brains, and it undoubtedly made old Secret Cinema a nice bit of extra cash as people quickly ran out of film.

But it had another benefit.

When the sun set and the film came on, and cars were racing round and things started exploding - everyone just kind of…took it all in.

You know, with their eyes and minds.

Some couldn’t resist a sneaky video – like the girls next to us – but then other cinema goers actually told them off. It was great.

So Secret Cinema might not be perfect, it might charge slightly too much for tickets, but it also puts on a brilliant night and does lots of things really well.

And making people put their stupid phones down for a few hours was definitely one of them.

These photos aren’t mine because my disposable camera isn’t developed yet. So thanks to Bex Walton & Mike T via Flickr for the images. Also Hollie for being the KING and sorting all this out.

A few of us are turning 30 this year.

Maybe you’ve seen us around: we’re the ones with the fear in our eyes, skinny jeans on our legs and double rum and cokes in each hand, yelling “BUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?” on the Kingsland Road circa 3am.

Over the last 29 years I’ve come to realise that not only is London a brilliant place to grow up, but it’s also a brilliant place to work and live when you’re not ready to grow up.

And, I hope, it’ll be an even better place to drag myself kicking, screaming and consuming huge amounts of medicinal gin into my thirties.

So in an effort to prove that the wild nights, hungover days and numerous flat rentals have been worth more than the thousands of pounds they’ve cost me financially, here are some things I’ve learnt about living, commuting and working in this massive city so far.



1. Londoners are not unfriendly.

In general, the good people of this city will try and help you if they can – unless you’re a chugger, it’s 7:30am, or their bus is coming.

2. But no, they’ll never want to chat on the tube. 

The underground is like a sanctuary. It’s the only place we can stop, put our music in, and have a little quiet time. Don’t ruin it with your campaigns to make it otherwise.

3. You should always have at least one spare Oyster card handy.

Keep one in a drawer. Stash one in your wallet. Hide one under the mat. You’ll need it – and if you don’t, I definitely will.

4. The bus is loads better than the Underground.

Imagine the tube, but cheaper, loads better, and with more free seats in the morning. Game changer, my friends. Game changer.

doing stuff


5. London makes people obsessed with their bank balance.

When people first move here, they go a bit money mad: the lack of it, how to get more, what their friends earn, how much everything costs compared to where they’ve been living up until now, and whether they should pack it all in and become a banker. This doesn’t really ever go away completely, but after a while they’ll realise:

6. You will never earn enough money here.

Sorry. London’s a bastard like that, always showing you things you can’t have. So here’s what you do: you get a salary that covers the rent, work hard, earn a bit more, then get on with enjoying what you’ve got. Usually in a shot glass.

7. The best things in London are free.

If you’re bored, skint, and don’t have anything to do, congratulations: this is the easiest place to find something that costs £0. It’s also the best place to meet people who can help blag you in.

8. London warps your concept of how much things should cost.

Paying £8.50 for a cocktail is normal, and I don’t know what this means any more.



8. Always go exploring on a weekday.

The best days off are the ones where you do everything that seems like too much effort on a Saturday. Shop, eat, drink, look, get the Clipper, museum hop, walk without people getting in your way – and, yes, go to the zoo.

9. Shortening your commute – even a little bit – is the best thing ever.

If you’re living in Zones 1-3 and your commute still takes longer than an hour, either move your house, or move your work. You will be instantaneously happier, and that extra 15 minutes in bed will be the reason why.

10. Do a job you like.

Don’t be one of those people that bores on about how unhappy they are in their job – you’re in London. Change it. You’ve got a better chance of succeeding at doing that here than anywhere else in the country.

11. Work somewhere sociable.

Preferably with people who like standing outside the pub after work on Fridays. And Mondays. And Tuesdays. Sometimes Wednesdays. Definitely Thursdays.

2013-04-05 23.47.17


12. Don’t date people who have just moved to London.

They’re enthusiastic, full of good intentions, have masses of ambition and every other attractive quality you can think of, but the bright city lights will usually end up shining brighter than you do. Don’t take it too personally. Give ‘em a year or two for mild discontent to set in.

13. This is the best place in the world to be single.

The other night I heard this rumour that outside of London, whole friendship groups of twenty-somethings are settling down and getting married ‘n’ stuff. Which is a bit mental.

14. It’s also the best place in the world if you don’t want to be single. 

You can meet people on the tube, waiting for a night bus, at house viewings, on Hampstead Heath, eating dinner, at pubs, in a park, through Twitter, or in your block of flats. And if they’re not in any of those places, they’ll probably be on Tinder.

15. London is a very, very small place.
Never underestimate how often you will bump into people you thought (or hoped) you’d never see again. Seriously. They’re everywhere.



16. Renting is a good thing.

Do not, I repeat, do not feel crap because you can’t afford to buy in London. Funding a landlord’s Barbados timeshare isn’t a waste of money if you’re happy, don’t want to live further out, or, y’know, don’t have a spare £500,000.

17. Looking for a house share is probably the least fun thing ever.

Always be picky. Hearing your housemates’ key turn in the front door should inspire “woohoo! Someone’s home!” joy, not “urgh, go awaydespair.

18. You should always live with people you can go for beers with. 

It just makes life easier when you all come home drunk and noisy at the same time.

19. The ideal housemates are usually friends-of-friends. 

Research (by me) has proven that the best people to live with are those you meet via a mutual friend. The more tenuous the connection the better. It gives you slightly more reassurance that they’re not mental.


Going out.

20. Uber is the best invention ever.

Sorry black cabs. I’ve shelved the moral outrage and embraced the cheap cabs home.

21. Most “street food” festivals are a rip off.

I have yet to come away feeling satisfied after paying £10 for a ticket, then £5-10 for food I’ve queued half an hour for.

22. Going to the cinema on your own is amazing.

Prince Charles Cinema. A good documentary. Sunday afternoon. Go see whatever’s on, switch off your phone and sit in the dark for a bit.

23. There is no day that cannot be improved by seeing a dog on the bus / tube.

This is a scientific fact.

24. Dishoom is the best restaurant ever.

Lamb raan, black daal, East India gimlet: worth queuing for.

dog on the bus

And finally.

25. North London is better than south.

Shut up, it’s my list.

Feel free to pass on this knowledge to your friends. Or at least send me a consolation birthday present in a month’s time. 

Yesterday I spotted this note tacked up around Islington Green in Angel.

“Dear Trend Victim”, it begins.


As you’ll probably have gathered by now, I’ve lost my fair share of stuff in London – mostly Oyster cards – but also some expensive items. And somehow, whether it’s an iPod left at Baker Street, an iPad on the bus, or, yes, one of the nine Oyster cards, they’ve always made their way back to me.

Once, years ago, when iPods were a thing you kept in your pocket instead of the bottom drawer of your desk alongside a collection of Ericsson T10 phone chargers, mine got lost somewhere between Baker Street and Pinner on my way home.

“Well, that’s that” I thought, adding it to the list of things to be miserable about that week – because I was 23, and when you’re 23 you’re always miserable about something you’ve failed at that week.

Then a few weeks later a note popped through the door and it was from a man who’d picked up my iPod, and he’d done some detective work and found my address on there, and sent it back along with, if I remember rightly, a Christmas card.

It heralded the start of beautiful relationship.

Not really. 

Along with the iPod he also sent me a not altogether positive analysis of my musical tastes, because even when they’re doing something nice, Londoners still like to assert their superiority in some way. Anyway, the important thing is I got it back.

So hopefully the Trend Victim will get their stuff back too. And hopefully, they won’t be too sensitive about being called a Trend Victim in the process.

Here’s to doing the right thing, London. 

As of today, you can no longer pay with cash on London’s buses.

Lots of people aren’t very happy about it, and as someone who manages to lose between 5-8 Oyster cards a year, I also fall into the group of those who would rather be able to pay £2.20 than beg, plead and weep at a bus driver to let me on so I can get home at 3am on a Saturday morning.

If you think it’s a stupid idea too then I’d encourage you to read this blog post or maybe this one, not because it’ll make a blind bit of difference when you’re stranded on Waterloo Bridge without any Oyster credit or a contactless payment card, but because nodding at your screen in an indignant way while imagining hypothetical bus payment scenarios which may or may not happen might make you feel a bit better in the short term.

Apparently the whole cashless buses thing happened so that TFL could save some money, and while that is largely agreed to be horse twaddle, it’s been a quiet weekend so I’ve been giving it some thought anyway.

Here are some other things they might like to consider to save money and improve London’s buses.


1. Make windows that open.

Boris sorted out all these new buses which was good of him – thanks, B. Can I call you B? – but on a sunny afternoon they’re like being stuck in a tropical fish tank without the pleasing coolness of water, and instead of cute little terrapins snapping at your fingers you get a conductor yelling “MOVE DOWN INSIDE THE BUS PLEASE, RIGHT DOWN, GO ON, MOVE”.

The air con must be expensive to run on full blast all day, so TFL could save lots of pounds by introducing ventilation in the shape of “windows” that “open” thus allowing a “breeze” to flow through. Think about it. You know, like the Victorians did.

2. Sensors on doors.

Save thousands in passenger injury compensation claims by putting sensors on the doors to prevent them closing when there is something in the way. Like a person. Either that, or ask your drivers to stop shutting doors actually on people’s faces.

And by “people’s faces” I mean “my face” because it’s happened twice now and I’m about to take it personally.

3. Allow passengers to get on the bus.

By training drivers to recognise well known signs such as “hand held out onto road”, “waving hand” and “polite smiley girl tapping on door when bus is stationary at a red light and hasn’t yet left the stop”, you could increase on people actually getting on the bus and paying for a journey.

4. Save paper by not throwing people off the bus.

When any other service in the world runs late, the attitude is very much “oh my god, so sorry, let me make sure you reach your destination now the traffic has cleared.” Not so on a bus, where after keeping you on board in stationary traffic for half an hour, they simply terminate early and drop you off wherever so they can catch up on their schedule, thus making you even later and wasting precious ££ on paper for “transfer vouchers”.

Solution? Don’t do that. Get people to where they need to be. Save paper. Save the WORLD.

5. Bus loyalty card.

Introduce guaranteed boarding for regulars to stop the fair weather cyclists nicking all the seats when it rains. I’d totally pay 30p for that. Or someone would, anyway.

6. Offer seat reservations.

Because now there are not one but two different ways to get onto the top deck of the 38 bus, the race for a seat has never been more tactical or fierce. Get some reservations on that shiz. Like Eurostar.

7. Sell earplugs.

Available for purchase from the conductor at the back, and particularly useful in the morning when fellow passengers are failing to respect the “no talking on your phone before 9am” rule that I made up just now.

8.  Let people pay cash for their bus trip.

Because otherwise when they’ve lost their Oyster card for the 18th time that month and all the ticket selling places are shut, and you can’t activate the money you just topped up with online because the tube stations are closed, and it takes 24 hours and you want to go home now, you won’t get any money at all. You’ll just get me. Crying. All the way to Dalston. On foot. And no one wants that.

If you have any additional money saving ideas for TfL, put them in a survey and send them over here so that I can put them in the bin. Thanks.

Image: κύριαsity via Flickr

Last Saturday I went to Field Day.

Field Day is a music festival in Victoria Park. It’s one of those ones where you don’t have to bring a tent because there’s no camping, and besides, your tent would probably get stolen anyway.

It’s a good place to go with a group of mates if hanging around in a park with beer and music is your bag (it’s my bag), plus if it’s sunny and the line-up’s decent, you can do a lot worse things with a Saturday afternoon in June.

(Although at £50 for a one day ticket, admittedly those worse things will probably be a bit cheaper).

That said, if you’re going and really want to enjoy the day to its full potential, you should reconcile yourself with a few basic truths first.

1. You will see four out of 50+ possible acts.

This is because most of your conversations will go like this:

“Oh, we could go and see Temper Trap…oh no we can’t. They’re not on the line up any more.”

“Why don’t we go and watch SOHN then?”

“They’re over the other side.”

“Let’s walk over.”

“Or we could just get a drink and sit here, I can sort of hear it.”

“Yeah. Let’s sit here for a bit and work out where to go.”

“We should go to the bar.”

“Yes, let’s go to the bar.”

line up

2. You will lose your friends.

Despite this festival taking place in what is basically a large garden, you will lose everyone. Some will wander off to watch an obscure Syrian rapper, others will naturally drift towards the bar, and before you know it there’s a split in your group that no amount of Whatsapp pin dropping can bring together.

Eventually, unable to decide what to see, who to meet or where to go, you’ll just sit down on a patch of grass, take photos of yourselves and wait for things to come to you.

None of this apply to your gay friends, however, who will find everyone they know, immediately, all the time, wherever you are.

I don’t know how.

field day

3. Mobile phones will not work.

With thousands of people all bumbling around like demented moths trying to locate their friends, the 3G air above Victoria Park will be blocked with 10,000 variations of exactly the same text message, all of which will arrive long after you have moved on to somewhere else.

I recommend finding someone taller than you, hopping on their back, and doing The Meerkat instead.

Photo 12-06-2014 13 25 57

4. Everything sounds bad in a tent.

Let’s be honest, there’s a reason the best nightclubs in the world aren’t built with large sheets of plastic for rooves. But this isn’t a nightclub, it’s a park, and something’s got to give.

Unfortunately, and not ideally for a music festival, that thing is volume.

Thank god for beer. Speaking of which…

field day tent

5. £5 Red Stripe.

Let’s just look at those words for a minute. £5 for a can of Red Stripe. Five pounds. For a can. Of Red Stripe. Red Stripe. The Jamaican beer which sells for 50p in most Dalston cornershops, and £1.50 at Ridley Road Market Bar.

Five pounds.

For a can.

Of Red Stripe.


And yet devoid of any other option, you will pay it.

me with red stripe

6. There will be queues for the toilets.

Use this time to refocus, meditate, drunkenly compliment the girl wearing a patterned all in one next to you, and imagine a world where festival toilets don’t have queues.

Or, use it as an opportunity to relocate your friends by knocking on every Portaloo door and asking everyone outside it “Did a girl go in here? Dark curly hair? Asian? About 20 minutes ago? SUE, SUE, ARE YOU IN THERE?”

Photo 07-06-2014 16 52 25

7. Fairground rides are a good idea in theory.

In practice, they’re £10 a go.

And as we’ve already discussed, you can get not one, but two Red Stripes for that.

It’s a no brainer.

ride at field day

8. You should get cash out before you arrive.

The queues for the cash machines are quite long, but the fun really starts once you get to the front, debit card in hand, and see this:

cash machines field day

9. You’ll go again (but not next year).

This is because it takes two years to forget all the irrevocable truths that make Field Day not quite as good as other things that cost £50 in London. Then, one day in April 2016, you’ll see a big poster on Kingsland Road and think “yes, that is a good idea. I cannot recall having anything but a marvellous time there.”

And you will go back.