She Loves London

Author: She Loves London

  • 10 Excellent Dogs I’ve Seen Hanging Around in Central London

    10 Excellent Dogs I’ve Seen Hanging Around in Central London

    Like most people who live and work in central London, I pretty much live for other people’s dogs.

    I think it’s because even though you know that theoretically there must be dogs around this city somewhere, you just don’t expect to see them.

    When I do see one, sometimes I forget that these dogs belong to other people. Within a few seconds I’ve made a beeline, reached out my hand, made a “c’mere! doggooohelllloooo” sound and beckoned for the dog to come closer. I know it’s not appropriate, I know that dog has no business being on my lap. But it’s there now, and it’s happy, and I’m happy, and anyway leave it here for a moment eh, I just want to be its friend.

    But to be honest, London really does have some A+ dogs. It was pretty hard to whittle it down, but here are some of the best ones I’ve seen.

    1. Wastedog  at Notting Hill Carnival

    Wastedog came to Carnival to rave, and Wastedog came to get messy. She wanted to drink beer, skank out in front of a soundsystem and eat curried goat. She’s done that. Mission accomplished. She peaked three hours ago and doesn’t even care who knows it.

    2. Very Tired Dog who absolutely did not want to be on the No 38 bus

    This dog literally yawned the whole way to work. It just sat there, on its owner’s lap, doing massive yawns and thus lending more evidence to the theory that dogs are basically humans who cannot deal with being up and out in public at 9am any more than you can.

    3. Dogs who may or may not belong to royalty in N16

    No one’s saying that HRH the Queen does her shopping on Stokey Church Street, no one is saying that at all. There is no proof, and anyway it’s not plausible that the Queen of England would ever go up to Clissold Park and see the goats and then stop by the butchers to pick up some sausages for a fry up on the way home. There is no evidence that Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II has ever done that. Not. at. all.

    4. This dog outside Dalston Argos who accurately sums up how everyone around here feels on a Sunday morning

    Literally. Someone get me a fucking Berocca.

    4. Granary Square fountain dog who will never be ready to go home, ever

    This dog was there when we arrived, and this dog was still there when we left. This dog had been there for hours. This dog is probably still in the fountains at Granary Square in Kings Cross; trying to catch all the water, eyes gone zany from the flashing lights. Its owners gone now, reduced to husks.

    6. This beautiful bus puppy who matched their collar with the cover of White Teeth

    How does it feel to see a bull terrier that 100% put in more effort towards matching their outfit to a Zadie Smith novel than you did today?

    7. Shop Dog whose retrieval skills are entirely wasted on the Covent Garden branch of Mountain Warehouse

    For gods sake, won’t someone let that dog fetch the matching hat and gloves?

    8. Dog in Viva Dalston who will definitely finish off anything you don’t eat

    I am very much all for dogs in eating establishments, but if anyone has mastered the art of ignoring a pup who has nailed looking extremely cute and is standing with a quizzical stance just over your friend’s shoulder while you try to eat nachos and quesadillas, please let me know.

    9. Bubble dog who will take your hand off* if you come any closer

    All hail this friendly very laid back sausage dog whose job it was to guard** the belongings of a couple who spent their Sunday afternoon making giant bubbles in Kings Cross.

    *lick
    **lie down next to

    10. Dog who will just wait here until you come back

    I think if there’s one thing London dogs have over normal dogs, it’s patience. I mean, there’s a lot of waiting around in this city. For buses. For tubes. Under pub tables while their owners get through a bottle of wine. This one’s an old hand, he knew the drill. Brunch first, walk later. He is a Good Dog.

    If this was Buzzfeed, this post would end with a “which dog are you” quiz, but this isn’t Buzzfeed and my name’s not Santa so instead, please send me your favourite dogs. There are also lots more dogs on my Instagram. 



  • The Good Bits of London: Bloomsbury

    The Good Bits of London: Bloomsbury

    When was the last time you went to Bloomsbury?

    Not for work. Not on your way to somewhere else. I mean: when did you last find yourself with not much on, and decide that the only way to save yourself from a swirling, brain dead hypnosis at the hands of Married At First Sight USA Series 3 would be the streets between Holborn and Kings Cross?

    It’s ok, you can admit it. You never have. It’s fine that you just glide past this bit of London without giving it a second thought, it’s fine that you’re not really that bothered because you’d rather just go somewhere else. It’s cool, I get it. You’re not bothered, and that’s because the only people who do bother are

    a) me

    b) tourists off to see dead people

    c) writers who want someone to publish their book

    and

    d) parents, because between Coram’s Fields and Great Ormond Street, Bloomsbury’s angling for the fairly niche award of Area That Is Both the First and Last Place You’d Ever Want to Take Your Kids.

    The best time to go to Bloomsbury is at the weekend.

    It’s the opposite to everywhere else in central London: it’s quiet, and everyone wears their backpacks on their backs. The only people you’ll see either live there, need medical attention, or got lost because they were looking up at all the Blue Plaques.

    If you dig around the backstreets you’ll eventually end up at The Brunswick Centre. From the outside, The Brunswick looks like a tiny Westfield parked in the middle of communist Russia. It’s a bit like One New Change, in that it’s good if your idea of a day out shopping is having a quick look around Office and Superdrug, followed by a Starbucks Frappacino and a nice sit down.

    It’s also where I’m reminded that there is a place where people are happy to pay £3 for a jar of Dolmio, and that place is Waitrose, and so if that’s your bag then lucky you; Bloomsbury’s got a massive one of those too.

    Mostly, I go to Bloomsbury for the cinema.

    In fact, if there’s ever a day where you can’t find me or reach me by phone and my Oyster account shows my last journey as the no. 38 bus, here are instructions for where to find me:

    – three floors underground

    – in a dark room right at the end of a softly lit corridor

    – happily ensconced in a large, comfortable chair that reclines when you lean back

    – drinking a nice cup of tea

    – probably watching a gentle, critically acclaimed documentary about horses.

    Put simply, the Curzon’s Bertha Dochouse is one of my favourite places to spend a Sunday afternoon. Again, it’s good because it’s usually quiet (bonus points if you’re spotting a theme here) which suits me because other humans make disgusting sounds while eating popcorn in the cinema. It’s really good, and the films are always A+. But don’t bother coming because it’s tiny, and it’s full. I’ve checked. There’s no room. Leave me be.

    Bloomsbury also has probably one of the most well known Italian restaurants in London.

    You’ll know about Ciao Bella, particularly if you’ve ever asked people on Twitter to recommend somewhere reliably good and not too spendy to take your parents for dinner. “Ciao Bella” they all chime, identical mentions streaming in one after the other, “go to Ciao Bella”.

    Everyone bloody loves Ciao Bella. My mates love Ciao Bella. I love Ciao Bella. My parents didn’t love Ciao Bella because it was fully booked, so we had to go somewhere else. They have free breadsticks on the table and serve seafood pasta in a paper bag, and if it’s busy they tell you to sit outside. Even in winter. And you do, because it’s that good.

    My favourite bit at Ciao Bella was when the young, naive Japanese couple next to us ordered a £6 garlic bread each for starters, only to have two massive pizza-size garlic breads arrive at their table. A few minutes later I watched with glee as their their mains arrived and their faces dropped, and two more enormous pizzas joined the spread. The staff didn’t warn them they’d have too much food. They’re Italian. That’s not their style.

    Unsurprisingly, Bloomsbury’s also very good if you mega like books.

    Not only did all your literary faves spend their heydey cavorting around Bloomsbury Square, but I see your branch of Waterstones and raise you Persephone Books.

    They’re a publisher and a bookshop that made it their brilliant, life affirming business to re-print the forgotten, overlooked, or out of print fiction and non fiction by mid 20th century women writers. The books are beautiful and lovely, and the sort of thing you’d want in your house even if you didn’t know how to read.

    Unfortunately I’ve had to ban myself from bookshops because I have “a problem” with buying books. So the last time I went, I bought one for someone else.

    So maybe you haven’t been to Bloomsbury except for work, or passing on a bus. But if you find yourself with a Sunday afternoon going spare, the Perseverance is a good pub, and the squares are nice places to sit.

    It is also a good place to be a woman who is hungry, wants to watch films and read some books. You should go. But, you know, don’t tell everyone. This is quiet time. 

  • We Got A Christmas Tree For Our Rented Flat And It’s The Best Thing Ever

    We Got A Christmas Tree For Our Rented Flat And It’s The Best Thing Ever

    This year we got a Christmas tree for our flat.

    If you’ve come within striking distance of me in the last week, then you’ll already know all about the tree. I’ll have told you about it, shown you photos. Instead of saying “hello how are you” like a normal person, I’ll have flung my iPhone into your face and yelled “LOOK AT OUR TREE”.

    Perhaps I’ve also invited you round to meet the tree. Perhaps you politely declined, and have been subjected to a slow drip feed of persuasive tree stories and carefully mood-lit images ever since.

    Getting a Christmas tree when you’re renting is a big deal.

    Mostly because every year you and your housemates will go “shall we get a tree?” and then decide that no one can be arsed, because it’ll die, because we’ll all be going home-home, no one will be here for Christmas Day.

    So deciding to actually get a Christmas tree is a landmark occasion. It’s an event, a commitment, a statement of permanence in your transient London renting life.

    It’s also, if I’m honest, a bit of an effort. Here’s why.

    Probably not the Narnia CS Lewis envisioned

    Step 1: Deciding between real or fake

    Granted, a fake tree could be easily procured from the Dalston branch of Argos, assembled, and used again for next year.

    But it’s inevitable: a fake tree in its massive box would end up joining the assortment of items currently congregating in the corner of our living room. There it would sit for the next 11 months, carefully balanced on the printer box, next to a rolled up rug, between the coat rack and a bike, quietly awaiting Christmas.

    That, or it’d get wedged inside Narnia, our ironically named hallway cupboard containing a dizzying array of hopes, dreams and scattered belongings left by housemates past and present. Namely several duvets, four suitcases, an ironing board, one Angry Birds fancy dress costume and a large bag of what I like to call “my seasonal wardrobe”.

    The fake tree would haunt us, eventually becoming one of those shared items you throw out with the toaster when everyone moves out. No, we needed simple, we needed disposable. We needed the smell of Christmas to cheer the humdrum routine of our repetitive, expensive London lives. We needed a real tree.

    Stoke Newington’s Christmas Tree Forest: a riot

    Step 2: Buying a real tree

    It’s generally accepted that you don’t need a car when you live in London. The only exception is likely to be when you happen to be in the market for a 5-6ft tree.

    We did not have a car, which meant our festive tree shopping trip wasn’t just an exercise in buying a Christmas tree, but reining ourselves in, remembering our limits, and not getting carried away.

    Admittedly I’ve never bought a house, but if house hunting is anything like trying to stick to an agreed budget and tree height when surrounded by a glorious selection of towering, bushy, 8-10 foot Norweigan firs in the Stoke Newington Christmas Forest, then I may be in trouble in years to come.

    Our saving grace was discovering the “Value Fir” section, where the trees were what some might call misshapen, or slightly less than perfect, and others might refer to as on the piss. It was there that we were introduced to Jim, who was £29 and 5-6 ft, slightly uneven at the base, a bit sparse on top, and therefore everything that we could have hoped for in a tree.

    We laid Jim the Value Fir on his side, grabbed an end each, and marched him home. Job done.

    Step 3: Decorating the tree

    In all the excitement of buying Jim, we sort of forgot about getting stuff to go on it.  The only decorations we had lying around consisted of one solitary strip of tinsel – aka last Christmas’ decorative effort – which didn’t go with our proposed 2016 colour scheme anyway.

    The problem is, no one moves into a rented houseshare with a box of Christmas baubles. You move into a rented houseshare with three big blue IKEA bags of clothing, a bin you’ve had since university, and a set of mismatched forks. So in short, we had to go back out and buy everything from scratch.

    We also aimed for a 60:40 bauble to chocolate ratio because these were our priorities.

    Step 4: Tell everyone how good your tree is

    There’s literally no point in getting a Christmas tree if you’re not going to go on and on about having one. I mean, you’ve literally got a tree in your living room. How often do you have a real actual tree from a forest in your living room?

    The good news is that there aren’t many conversations which can’t be brought round to the subject of Christmas trees. It’s pretty much all me and my housemate are talking about. Sometimes we just sit in the living room with the lights off and Jim sparkling in the corner, and ponder how lucky we are.

    As my housemate said this morning,”I don’t know why people don’t have trees in their living room all year round.”

    Seriously. Imagine how good the year would be.