Starting My Blog Again and What I’ve Been Up To
The above photo is my last night waitressing and I was laughing like a fool.
Where to begin?
It has been a minute, and there is a lot to catch up on. Between September and January, I somehow lived in not one, not two, not three, not even four, but five different flats. I gave myself a bob in a bathroom sink (probably because of the moving stress), dated my landlord, and worked as a cocktail waitress (post-grad life, right?). I moved to London, started a new job the day after I turned 24, and lived with Lily Allen’s ex personal assistant.
So yes, a lot has happened. It feels like a good time to catch up.
I have split this into three parts:
Waitressing at a crazy bar in the North
Moving in Durham and dating my landlord
Moving in London, twice
Let’s get into it.
This is the bob I gave myself, and my uniform. Not to toot my own horn, but I it turned out alright for an at-home job.
Waitressing at a Crazy Bar in the North
Around last spring, I quickly realized I was running low on money, and needed a job. ASAP.
So I printed out 20 copies of my CV and went to town on a Saturday afternoon and that’s when I saw, or better yet heard, my future workplace: El Pincho.
Durham was an interesting place in that the university did not match its surroundings at all. My peers at Durham University conducted research for Rishi Sunak, and sipped cocktails with Jannik Sinner at Wimbledon. My lecturers loved words like “rhetoric” and “paradigm” and my scholarship group hosted seminars on how fungi is good for the environment.
Outside the university bubble, things were a bit more rowdy, and the locals definitely knew how to have a good time: my kind of people.
So when I say I heard El Pincho, I mean quite literally. That was one of the owners’ main marketing tactics: crank the music as loud as possible, and open all of the doors. And it worked.
The place was teeming with locals, spilling out of the place, rammed in shoulder to shoulder, all Saturday. So I thought to myself, surely they could use a bit of help.
I came back the next Sunday with my CV before the place opened and was met by a scrappy, little woman named Jane. She was the chef and manager all rolled into one, about five foot with a neon red pixie cut to top it all off. After a few minutes of interrogation, I was offered the job.
I started working doing about 10 hours, then 20, 25 hours a week, usually all day on Saturdays, 1/2 a day on Sundays, and as many other weekdays Jane would give me.
On my first day, I was warned that ten women had gotten into a brawl on the dance floor the Saturday before and had to be escorted out. I also quickly learned not to clear glasses that still had a sip of Blue Lagoon in them.
I had to tell a bride-to-be that she could not crawl on the table, and that she could not give her aunt a lap dance, for safety reasons. But, yes we were happy to play WAP for her on the loud speaker.
And it is the only time in my life I’ve seen a 60-year-old woman fully straddle and make out with an 18-year-old on a bench outside…on a Sunday at 3 PM.
After being having to be so “on” at uni, I felt like I could really be myself laughing at the outrageous jokes in the kitchen and gossiping with Jane about the regulars.
Minus a few customers who would yell at me for not getting their bottomless drinks out quickly enough, and the fact that I could never remember how to make a bloody porn star martini, I absolutely loved that job, and the people I worked with.
Moving in Durham and Dating my Landlord
OK, so let’s get into the housing. Even writing this out is making me feel worn out.
For most of my time in Durham, I lived in the master’s dorms for a full 12 months. When it came time to move out, I still hadn’t secured a full-time job. I knew I needed a month-to-month arrangement, and on the verge of having nowhere to sleep, I willingly moved into a flat I could only stay in for one month. Brilliant planning and time management from me, I know.
The first room I found in Durham was on the outskirts in the countryside. I paid £500 a month for rent and bills and lived with an accountant in their 30s who worked in town, and a charming 28-year-old landlord who came up on the weekends.
Every Saturday morning before my shift, Mr Landlord and I would stand in the kitchen in our pyjamas and chat over coffee.
I feel like a typical landlord chat lasts five minutes, but ours always went on for 30 to 40 minutes. Did I put on makeup before I went to the kitchen? Lowkey yes.
On my last night there, he invited me for a Sunday pub roast. That turned into drinks, which turned into watching Titanic. And yes, I did get my security deposit back in full, thank you very much.
I moved out the next morning, grateful that the timing worked in case the dinner went horribly.
The next flat was also in the countryside and also £500 a month. Remember, I was working as a waitress the whole time.
Mr Landlord’s place had been dingy and dark, so I was absolutely delighted with this new flat. It was owned by a young woman in her late 20s who was absolutely the nicest person and mostly never around. I had an ultra-plush flat all to myself and basically stuck there until I got a full-time job.
Fortunately and unfortunately, I got a job offer ten days after I moved in, which meant I had two weeks to move to London.
Moving in London, Twice
I had two weeks notice to move to London with no money.
How much money? Basically none.
I was riding the bus because it was 75 pence cheaper than the tube and buying sheets from Poundland. Times were tough. Lol.
As a quick aside, I have now upgraded and am a proud owner of Dunelm sheets.
I couldn’t afford the train ticket from Durham to London to look at flats beforehand, so I messaged about 100 people on Spare Room. The place I found was cheap, looked relatively nice, and was about 20 minutes from my new office, so I took it.
My new flatmates were a bit older. The live-in landlady was 50, and the other woman was 40 and happened to be Lily Allen’s ex personal assistant. It was a very calm and quiet household. The catch? The never-ending list of rules.
I couldn’t use the fridge. Yes, you read that correctly. I had to wipe the water out of the shower after using it. No toiletries, not even a toothbrush, in the bathroom. I could not leave my dishes out to dry. I had to use the key to close the door so it wasn’t too loud.
To make sure I wasn’t blamed for anything, I literally took pictures of the kitchen and shower after I used them. Safe to say, I was not drinking Prosecco and watching Love Island with these women.
These are some cookies my dad sent me for my birthday, which were amazing. Because I never wanted go into the kitchen, I tried to snack on these for as long as possible and then eat at work.
Pretty much as soon as I moved in, I wanted to move out. So for November and December, my main project was finding a new flat while starting a new job. Luckily, I found a flat in Wimbledon and moved in January. I currently live there with one girl who is 28 and one guy who is 25.
In my typical fashion, getting everything to my Wimbledon flat was a huge cluster f**k. I crammed all my stuff into an Uber XL and somehow accidentally pressed a button that moved the seats down. Everything came crashing out onto the street and I was trying not to hyperventilate. Fun times. Later that week, I might have gone on a date with my TaskRabbit/finance bro who built my bed for me. But that’s a story for another time.
So yes, I haven’t been blogging or Instagramming. I have been either searching for flats or hefting boxes all over the UK! But now that I am done moving and my hair has grown out a little, I’m ready to start GGD up again.
