EVER TUESDAY: London

An ode to all the dishes I can't eat right now

By Charlea - Thursday, April 23, 2020

This is my sixth week at home. Six weeks of keeping a social distance. Holing up in my north London flat with my boyfriend, a stack of books, mindfulness colouring book and a 1000-piece puzzle (depicting Tower Bridge, natch) for company.

It's been a weird time, but for me it's been a very privileged time. I live a stone's throw from the Lea Valley park, Walthamstow Wetlands and beautiful River Lee canal walks – so fitting in an hour's walk before work every morning has been both easy and joyful. I've become an uncharacteristically calm person now I don't have to commute twice every day. I have a private balcony that catches sunshine from 3-6pm every day (prime cocktail time) and my building has a roof garden. I (thankfully) still have a job and as it stands am being paid my full pay. I've got food. We've got a spare room, heaps of dumbbells and our own "gym" setup. I've got everything I need in my own home to live very comfortably and use this period as an opportunity to slow down, spend precious quality time with my partner, and just enjoy what we've got. Not everyone is so lucky. You can be assured I count my many blessings every single day.

But one thing I'm missing that I really miss right now... MY FAVOURITE DISHES.

I've made it quite clear that one of the things I love most about London is the food. City living has so many shit sides – the cost of rent, number of tourists, horrific commuting situation, and having to pay £10 for a g&t. But the bad has always outweighed the good for me – namely the lifestyle I get to lead. And having some of the world's best food on my doorstep is one of the biggest parts of the lifestyle I love so much.

Lockdown has (obviously) stolen the opportunity to go out for food. Some of London's best and my most favourite restaurants are really really struggling now. Many have chosen not to offer takeaway services to protect their staff – a necessary but crushing choice to make.

For now the only option I've got on my already bad Deliveroo is Pizza Go-Go, and – no disrespect – but I think I'll be holding off for now. Saving my pennies for the dishes I really miss.

I'm dreaming of a no. 4 pizza at Franco Manca – those oozing pools of ricotta, offset by salty, crispy roasted ham and delicate chunks of mushroom. I ask for a little extra tomato on the base, and always always order a pot of indulgent Colston Bassett stilton dip to dunk those heavenly, doughy crusts into. I'm craving Nando's chilli-spiked macho peas – best consumed alongside salty halloumi and butterfly chicken (lemon and herb if you must know).

I miss the lunch break luxury of a Pret popcorn bar. A crunchy concoction of rice krispies and popcorn, glued together using condensed milk and creamy white chocolate. I'd die for a lunch bowl from Ahi Poké – I build my own on a black rice base, always topping with ahi tuna in sriracha mayo, and garnishing with edamame, crispy onions, carrots, charred sweetcorn and seaweed roasted cashew nuts.

I'd devour a bowl of Camino's arroz negro – with the creamiest aioli on top and just the right amount of cuttlefish chunks hidden in the rice. See also Dishoom's fragrant black daal. Rich; creamy (it's cooked for 24 hours)... and those lentils actually melt in your mouth. Continuing along indulgent lines, I could cry at the thought of Flat Iron creamed spinach. I've never tasted better.

And what about London's cheese?! I can never forget the brie with truffled mascarpone at The Cheese Bar. Cheese sandwiched between cheese sounds like a heart attack waiting to happen. And it probably is. But it tasted incredible – perfectly accompanied by those pickled grapes and crackers. I've sampled plenty of London's burrata dishes, but I've never found a better one than at Sodo in Walthamstow. One swift knife cut sends ricotta oozing all over the plate – but mopping it up with the soft, garlicky sourdough is a joy.

It's not just food I miss. A creamy but punchy Grind espresso martini would be heaven. I've tried many times over the last six weeks to make my own. But as has been proven (and my boyfriend will testify), I really do have all the gear (cocktail set, coffee liqueur, vodka, Grind's own bloody ground coffee) but unfortunately no idea. Hell, I even miss my Friday morning coffee at Planet Organic – a frothy latte with deliciously sweet hazelnut mylk.

Then there's desserts. Babka at The Good Egg – preferably chocolate or salted caramel, but I'll take whatever's in. Although an incredibly rare treat, a few scoops in a waffle cone from Udderlicious in Islington would be the perfect antidote to a long day working in my living room. But nothing tops my beloved Konditor & Cook – namely their salted caramel brownie. It's moist and melty, with an incredible drizzle of luscious caramel on top. Try as you might, you'll never be able to find – or make – a better one.

London: I'll be back soon. And when I am, you bet I'll be spending most of my time eating my way around my favourite restaurants again. Chances are they'll probably be needing me as much as I need them.

Hold on and stay strong.

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London

A love letter to London

By Charlea - Thursday, September 19, 2019

Dear London,

We’ve been together for FIVE years now. Mad, right? Sometimes I still feel like the helpless mess on week one of commuting life, virtually sobbing in a tunnel somewhere at Bank station as I tried to figure out which exit to take (disclaimer: I still haven’t quite mastered this one).

Our union was always a natural one. I studied Journalism at Kingston University, which despite the marketing is categorically not in London. I’ve been late for far too many work experience gigs to call suburban Zone 6 part of the city… Anyway, it was natural that I’d end up moving to the city eventually. ALL the jobs were there. Well, maybe not strictly true, but they certainly weren’t in the tiny hamlet in Somerset I grew up in.

I’d spent my childhood in the most wholesome environments ever. We always lived in houses that either had beams or fireplaces (usually both), and we always had outside space. This ranged from big garden to one acre field, and the rural settings my parents favoured meant I’d grown up constantly playing outside. This was seemingly idyllic until the teenage angst started to kick in. Any town worth visiting was at least an hour away. I didn’t live on a bus route and I had to rely on family members to drop me off at train stations, pick me up from nights out, and generally act as my personal chauffeur. The clubs were tiny, sticky and full of more angst, and I just always had the feeling that there was something more.

So when I eventually made it and unpacked my pile of belongings into a tiny single room in a friend’s flat in Battersea, I felt like I’d REALLY made it. At first, anyway. This was it: my big moment. I’d be snapped up by a magazine in no time, and I’d wear pencil skirts to work and file witty column pieces, and drink lots of wine at fancy dinners.

It soon became apparent that you, London, do not just hand these things out to everyone.

I struggled, and I mean really struggled, to get myself a job. I was a graduate with a really good skillset and respectable 2:1 in Journalism, but I could barely get invited in for interview unless the work experience was unpaid. I spent days in a flat, draining my savings on rent and constantly inventing new ways to buy myself another month. I sold my car. I lived on soup. My days left me depressingly confined within the flat, where I did home workouts, applied for jobs, and cried all the time.

One saving grace in the midst of graduate depression was where I lived. I was a stone’s throw from Battersea Park and the Albert Bridge, so in essence a stone’s throw from some of the most incredible views in the city. It was an affluent area which sucked for supermarket shopping, but was great for saving on an Oyster card. I’d sit on the 19 for a measly £1.50 bus fare and travel right into Piccadilly and beyond. I could walk to Harrods and Hyde Park. Those moments of space; looking up and seeing how beautiful the city is… they really saved me. In my darkest times I held on because of that small glimmer of hope and opportunity.

After a few months of terribly paid work experience (£10 a day was a particular low), I managed to get a proper job. It didn’t really involve writing columns or wearing pencil skirts, but it did give me a solid foundation in Content Marketing, a brilliant group of work friends and somewhat of a social life. I had a purpose. I had a regular commute, and a routine centring around which free magazines I picked up on which days. I had lunchboxes and work drinks and enough of my uni friends lived in south London that we could scrape together our measly salaries and have one night out a month.

It felt like I was starting to get it. I left the Battersea flat and moved in to a friend’s spare room in Tooting, where I eventually settled for three years. I fell in love with this quirky pocket of town – a place I still proudly say I saw transform before my own eyes. You’re not a proper Londoner until you’ve got an anecdote about your neighbourhood “coming up”, and I really felt like I was part of the Tooting renaissance. It went from somewhere dark and shadowy where litter picking didn’t exist and chicken burgers decayed outside your front door, to somewhere gritty yet glamorous – with brunch spots and artisan coffee shops and cocktail bars and a club people considered to be cool. It was Clapham mark two, but with less rugby players. The commute was absolutely hideous, but it somehow always felt worth it for the promise of BYOB curry houses and a three-floor Primark when I got home.

I can proudly say I had my best London years (yet) in Tooting. It was the formative place that really made me feel like a Londoner. I had things to complain about (the Northern Line), stuff to recommend (Apollo Banana Leaf), and a working knowledge of south west London.

But in all honesty nothing made me love you, London, quite like my boyfriend. We met in our Farringdon office in 2016 and in the three years since have devoted much of our time to exploring together. Walking around London is nice, but it’s ten times better with someone by your side. We’ve had so many Sundays traipsing down the South Bank; searching for ice cream in Soho; walking around Goodge Street chatting lazily about our future plans.

Having a partner means accessing parts of London you couldn’t before too. We’ve got our favourite restaurants, our “places” – the city has become a patchwork of places where we’ve made memories together and grown in love.

He may have plucked me from south London, but now we live in north London together I’m getting to fall in love with the city all over again. I’m finding new spots, new excitement, and getting to be part of a new area that’s “coming up” (veryyyyy slowly).

So there we have it. Five whole years. It’s not always an easy place to live. There’s so many tourists, the weather can be cruel – there’s nothing as bad as a London winter. The cost of a g&t is frankly ridiculous. The pollution terrifies me. Sometimes it feels that the best parts of the city are reserved for those with privilege. Bankers and finance types get to enjoy vintage champagne on picturesque rooftops, while most of us work away on the ground and look for deals on Deliveroo so we can “treat” ourselves to lunch out.

But luckily the good has always outweighed the bad. Franco Manca. Diversity. A collective culture of openness and acceptance. The galleries that are free to look around. The brunches. The coffee shops. The view from London Bridge. The constant feeling of being part of history. The buildings and architecture you see around every corner if you just look up from your phone.

My love affair with you, London, has lasted five years now and I really hope it lasts another five. It would be a shame for us to part ways when we’re so clearly made for each other. So do me a favour and keep the house prices down so we can buy ourselves that semi in Walthamstow with a garden, ok?

Yours faithfully,

Charlea

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food

My 5 favourite restaurants in London

By Charlea - Tuesday, August 27, 2019

This list was painful to collate.

I'm a foodie, see. When I first moved to the big city five whole years ago (it's actually my five year anniversary in a few days time), the thing I was most excited about was the food. The chance to try any cuisine in the world without travelling more than an hour from my front door. The hope of one day eating in some of the country's most renowned restaurants, with food from recognised chefs.

The problem with London, reader, is that it's big. It's a little too big to have a "regular" – unless you're one of the lucky few who settles in a neighbourhood and never leaves (looking at you, rocketing rent prices). And there's a little too much choice to always visit the same spots anyway. Every week the food section of Time Out has me adding to the London hit list at the back of my diary – and I'm not sure I'll ever eat through my bucket list.

So when you find somewhere you actually want to go to more than once in the city, you're onto a winner. Which is how I eventually managed to put this list together. These are all places I've visited at least twice, and each time have had an incredible meal. Plus the dish I most recommend ordering there – which I've also done each visit...

NB: this list is NOT in order. That was a bridge too far for my indecisive mind...

Delamina East (Shoreditch)

When I discovered this place it was actually called Strut & Cluck – a nod to the volume of turkey recipes on the menu. But what was once a humble pop-up has since developed into two restaurants, under the name Delamina.

The menu is everything I love about Mediterranean cooking. It's small plates with big flavours – Ottolenghi without the ridiculous price tag, and almost everything has tahini on it. I've never ordered a dish I hate here. The menu is divided into Earth, Land and Sea, and I recommend a little of each.

My particular faves? The charred cauliflower comes with a generous drizzle of lemon zest creme fraiche, and is studded with jewel-like pomegranate molasses and seeds – for optimum flavour and crunch. The chicken in lettuce cups with spicy tahini and date molasses manages to be light and creamy at the same time, and the za'atar squid on cripsy kale is a great combo of sweet and sour.

But if I really had to choose one thing, I'd choose the hand-pulled shawarma. Sounds simple, tastes ridiculous. There's dates, pine nuts, tomatoes, thick tahini and a fluffy cloud-like pitta bread to mop it all up with.

>> Delamina East

Polpo, various locations

I first stumbled into Polpo in Farringdon. I worked locally and had walked past it enough times to sense it was a pretty nice place, but as a broke junior working in marketing I knew it would definitely need to be a special occasion to warrant a trip inside.

I made it eventually – for a birthday meal with my family. And I basically fell in love.

At this point I'll share something that soon won't be a shock: I am OBSESSED with small plates. There's something incredibly satisfying about being able to order four dishes without any judgement, and trying four different flavour combos is always going to beat having one.

Polpo's cuisine is Venetian – which means meat and fish feature heavily on the menu, along with some adorable mini pizzas and antipasti-style nibbles. My absolute go-to dishes are: the 'nduja arancini and stuffed fried olives (for a pre-meal nibble); the fritto misto (mixed, lightly breaded fish and shellfish); indulgent and beautifully rich spicy pork and fennel meatballs; and the simple-sounding but wonderfully fresh zucchini, rocket, basil and parmesan salad – which I've recreated countless times for my weekday lunchbox.

My absolute favourite order is surprisingly vegetarian – the chickpea, spinach and ricotta balls with tomato. You know something's really good when I try to make my own version of it and fail spectacularly, and I've had way too many unfortunate run-ins with chickpeas now to say I've ever made a ball that tastes as good as Polpo's. Order it and wash it down with the restaurant's very own prosecco. You're a gondola away from actually being in Venice.

>> Polpo

Dishoom, various locations

The queue at Dishoom is much like the many exits at Bank station – it's one of those mythic London things that people talk about, but you'll never really understand until you experience it yourself.

In my teenage Somerset years, the thought of queuing for a restaurant would have made me roll my eyes in utter disgust – but here I am, several Dishoom queues later with absolutely ZERO regrets. There's a reason you're waiting for your food, and it's more than worth it once you get inside.

Dishoom serves Bombay-inspired breakfast naans by day, and indulgent small plates by night – it's actually one of the only places I can safely say is as good for brunch as it is for dinner. Everything on the menu is lovingly thought out and tells a great story, and as a copywriter myself I can't help but fangirl over the brand's use of words.

But we're here for the food. So let's talk food. First things first, don't just order one breakfast dish. Dishoom deserves at least two – I recommend ordering one each (but share), then sharing a sweeter dish for br-essert (brunch dessert, obvs). The bacon naan roll is famous and for good reason – the bacon is smoky, the naan is pillowy soft, and the tangy chilli jam is a perfect accompaniment. Next up I'd order the Akuri – an Irani café dish consisting of golden scrambled eggs, laced with fragrant spices and served with puffy homemade buns. Then share a bressert of house granola – it's stuffed with nuts, toasted in butter and honey, and complemented with a silky, creamy yogurt. Wash it all down with the bottomless chai tea, and spend the next month craving it. You're welcome.

By night – go mad. I have a few Dishoom staples I'll always order – paneer curry, charred masala prawns, the chicken thigh cooked delicately in cream and spices for ultimate tenderness (they call it Murgh Malai), and a chilli broccoli salad to balance it all out. But Dishoom is one place where I'll always try something new, because you can literally always guarantee it'll be amazing.

The ultimate dish? It's not original but... the black daal. Even hearing the words "black daal" sets my soul on fire. Dishoom's recipe is tightly guarded so my many attempts to recreate it have always fallen a little short of the mark, but at £6.20 a bowl it's an indulgence I'm more than willing to pay for on the regs. It's so richly flavoured it tastes creamy – the lentils will actually melt in your mouth. Which is no surprise considering they apparently cook it for 24hrs to nail that depth of taste. Hungry?

>> Dishoom

Champagne + Fromage, various locations

Coming from a family of cheese lovers means I've spent a good chunk of my London life in search of the perfect cheeseboard. It's taken me to overpriced cheese shops (I once paid £5 for the tiniest chunk of blue cheese), rooftops (namely Boundary, who do a great yet small cheeseboard), and more often than not to the aisles of M&S (for a Camembert to bake).

Luckily I found cheese mecca in the most romantic way: on one of my first dates with my boyfriend of three years. It's called Champagne + Fromage, and they basically serve champagne and cheese (duh). You can order the good stuff in loads of different formats – there's raclette, tartines, salads and boards, with champagne available to buy by the glass.

But if you're going to do it, you really must do it properly. Splash out on the £25 gastroboard and try three cheeses, three charcuterie meats, cornichons and two tapenades with plenty of bread to mop, dunk, pile and devour. The cheeses are handily grouped into different families, so will perfectly complement each other – and a special shout out here goes to the staff, who know more about cheese than my own family. Which really is an achievement.

You'll almost definitely come out with tighter jeans, but it's honestly the best cheese experience in London by a long shot. Prepare for some weird dreams...

>> Champagne + Fromage

The Good Egg, Stoke Newington & Soho

While the dinner at The Good Egg is great, as the name would suggest it's really all about brunch here. And damn, those eggs are good.

The Good Egg is a Jerusalem kinda café, so za'atar, labneh feta and preserved yogurts feature highly on the menu. Essentially you can expect all the classic brunch dishes with an interesting and delicious twist on them. The shakshuka gets an indulgent touch with za'atar sourdough and a creamy lemon preserved yogurt; the breakfast hash is given personality with harissa flavour and marinated feta; and the French toast comes with a fragrant strawberry and rose jelly, plus crunchy pistachio brittle.

I'd honestly recommend any of their savoury dishes. Close your eyes and point – you won't be disappointed. But an absolute must-do when visiting The Good Egg is to leave with a slice of Oded's babka in hand. Flavours vary depending on the day, but expect mouthwateringly soft dough, sticky swirls of chocolate or caramel, and a generous portion that means sometimes you've got enough for a second serving later (with ice cream, of course).

>> The Good Egg

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London

Things that may or may not happen during your first year in London

By Charlea - Friday, April 27, 2018

You will spend a Thursday night in The Folly, which one of your friends has convinced you is a "good venue for a chilled glass of wine". You'll subsequently spend your evening fending off attention from suits possibly twice your age, who are trying to buy you martinis. After two (four) wines, you will dutifully accept a free martini, reel off a few quick anecdotes to the aforementioned elderly suit-wearer about your job and an imaginary but very long term and serious boyfriend, neck said martini, and run. For your life.
You'll experience elation in its truest form when you discover that your local corner shop is well stocked with your obscure favourite chocolate from childhood. You'll eat said white chocolate Lion bar every night thereon.
You will do a tequila shot with your boss, then the next day pretend it never happened. It will never be mentioned again.
You'll try to take up smoking in a bid to earn some cool girl kudos/get to find out what everyone gossips about outside. You will only smoke Vogues because they make you look and feel like Audrey Hepburn. After several attempts at learning to inhale, you'll eventually realise you hate the taste and smell like a stale raincoat when you smoke, and you'll give up.
You'll come into work hungover after less than three hours sleep, wearing your best friend's clothes with yesterday's hair, and nobody will bat an eyelid.
You'll walk across London Bridge with your headphones in and an empowering feminist song playing, pretending you're in a music video/scene from Bridget Jones' Diary.
You'll order a complicated latte because you want to try and be a cool London career girl. It'll cost you £4.50 for a regular. You'll hide your heart failure as you reluctantly tap your credit card and pretend you enjoy the taste of matcha (pond slime).
You will eat a lot of street food. Food that isn't served in a polystyrene container and consumed with a plastic/wooden fork will feel strangely wrong.
You'll go to a house party somewhere in Zone 6. It'll take you two hours, three tube lines and two buses to get there. You'll have spent so much on transport, your only contribution to the event will be a £3.50 bottle of Sainsbury's Basics white wine that you were delighted to find in the bigger than average supermarket next to the tube. You won't even be embarrassed.
You'll fall asleep on the tube and wake up in Morden.
You will become over-friendly with every Uber driver you have, and every cab you take will feel like an in-depth chat with a very old school friend. You'll know details including (but not limited to): how many children they have, how long it took them to pay off their mortgage, and whether or not cab driving was their dream career.
You'll accept some form of freelance paid work (helping someone's mate's mum move house OR writing a three line paragraph for someone's uncle's business website), and you will work the job for £10. This will feel lucrative.
You will post an edgy venue (see above) on your Instagram story. When people ask about it in shocked tones, you'll act like you're a regular and you go there all the time. You'll probably throw in an anecdote about who they commissioned for the art on the walls/which unknown but obviously very cool DJ was playing when you went/where they source their organic agave nectar from for the cocktails.

(Three years later, you'll read this very list that started on your iPhone notes section on a number 19 bus ride home three years ago, and you will curl up and cringe in shame at your former naïve self. Cos you're a REAL London gal now, dontcha know...)

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lifestyle

In defence of: the Northern Line

By Charlea - Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Ah, the Northern line. Ask a Londoner, and I bet they have an opinion of it - and we're usually divided into two polar opposite camps.

First there's the Northern line bashers; the type of people you see standing on the platform at Kennington on the brink of mental collapse, tube map app in hand as they run between platforms in a desperate bid to uncover the many fundamental differences between the Charing Cross branch and the Bank branch.

Then there's the die hard Northern line fans; the Clapham city slickers who calmly surf the great rickety trains day in and day out - gym bag in hand by weekday, and pushchair in hand come Saturday. The type of people who can shrug off a last minute service alteration via Charing Cross, and who take the Stockwell stampede in their bleary-eyed stride.

Aka, myself.

Having lived and commuted on the bitter Tooting end of the Northern line for 12 months now, I'm a seasoned pro at dealing with the soaring highs and lows of what was recently voted London's most unhygienic tube line, and I can safely say I've never been so proud to be an All Black Northern line groupie. Let me count the ways.

First things first, that unreal distance. On no other line can one travel from the picturesque nappy valley of Wandsworth to the equally picturesque nappy valley of Golders Green, without the need to use 2849238 different lines and spend precious time and personal space elbowing lost tourists out the way on the platform of Oxford Circus.

Yes it might take me 60 minutes to make it to Kings Cross, and yes the scrum to get off at Moorgate could easily rival a Debenhams Boxing Day sale, but I rest my commuting bones every night happy in the knowledge that I can get from A to B with ease and more often than not from the comfort of a springy spare seat. Cocktails in Camden? I'll see ya in 90 mins. Hampstead ponds you say? I'll be there within 2 hours!

And if you think about it, it's all rather character building. Between Colliers Wood and Clapham Common (a mere five stops) you can see the true evolution of the Londoner - a beautiful blend of yawning, slightly unkempt Zone 4 Metro-wielding graduates, and those bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Reiss suits fresh from their £2000pcm Georgian semi just off the Common, wielding both engagement rings and hopelessly attractive partners.

And nobody judges anyone. On the Northern line, we're all friends. We're all part of the last minute service alterations, we're all holding our breath and hoping not to sacrifice our seat for pregnant women at Balham, and we're all hoping the hot guy opposite gets off at Bank too.

Yes, it may have been unveiled as London's least hygienic and most germ-ridden Tube line, but in true Northern line spirit we simply keep calm and hand sanitise on.

Because let's face it, if you're going to date anyone in London: date the person who lives within easy reach of Borough market, Waterloo, Chalk Farm and even Mill Hill, should the mood take you. Date the person who always knows which branch to use; who'd never leave you stranded at Kennington. Date the person who doesn't break a sweat through an All Black summer amidst broken vents and poor air circulation. Date the person who can take you bowling for a fiver in Elephant & Castle, onto a boat-cum-club in Embankment for suspicious-tasting beer, and still have you back to Tooting Bec in time for sunset on the common and a curry on the Broadway.

And yes, we'll probably be the last people to get the night Tube, but until then will you hear us complain? Will you heck. There we'll be championing the last train home after our Thursday night work drinks, slumped in our seats with beer goggles on as we ogle our travel companions from Angel to Oval - ever grateful we've got plenty of time and plenty of Claphams to get through before we have to sober up and brave the escalator back to civilisation.

Embodying some of those fundamental characteristics that make British people so great, the Northern liner is truly the best kind of Londoner.

He's the young professional just setting himself up and the happily married on their way to a weekend baby yoga class.

He's the inebriated city worker who's just necked a cocktail of Jager and class A's, and the 78-year-old former lecturer on the way home from an exhibition and fresh cake at the British Library.

He's brave, accepting, wise and patient. He's diverse.

He might let you down once or twice, but he'll probably be up and running again quicker than you can say 'Oval station's Thought of the Day'.

He's unapologetically shabby and rough round the edges compared to some of his newer counterparts, and that's exactly why he's so very charming.

He's always there and he'll always get you home eventually - even if it takes him a few hours.

Isn't it time we all got a bit more Northern line?

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London

An Ode to my Oyster Card

By Charlea - Monday, March 07, 2016

This piece was originally published on Frontlist/Backlist

2016 is my 23rd year on the planet. It’s also the fifth anniversary of my Oyster card.

I still remember the moment I purchased it at Tottenham Hale Tube station. I was on my way back to Kingston from visiting my boyfriend in his new uni halls, all shaky from our emotional goodbye at the station steps, but high on endorphins from our weekend of snogging, binge eating, pillow talk, and pretending that 18-year-old love was enough to keep us together despite our new lives being so separate… Fast forward a few years and that relationship has long disintegrated, but my Oyster card never did. That humble blue plastic has accompanied me on some of my greatest physical and metaphorical journeys.

It enabled me to take my first ever London bus journey, and embarrass myself by saying thank you to the driver (lesson learned: Londoners hate each other and will do anything to avoid speaking). It’s accompanied me on countless mornings after the night before, bleary-eyed on a bus through Zone 6, smelling of garlic mayonnaise and vodka-induced regret. It came with me on my first day of my first ever internship in a real life office, and watched me in sheer panic scrubbing chewing gum off my shabbiest Chelsea boots as I rolled into Waterloo. It’s since been a part of every job interview – stepping into fancy new buildings in glamorous London Bridge, a tiny studio in Earlsfield, and the pitiful five hour shift I lasted as a shop assistant in Sloane Square.

It’s been there on the dreaded N87 from Charing Cross to Kingston, when we’d use the dregs of our student bursaries to play adults in Mayfair clubs with extravagant cocktails – that 90 minute journey that more often than not resulted in holding hands, flirting, or talking to strangers. My Oyster has come on multiple first dates. Some good; many awful – but thank god I always had my blue get-out-of-jail free card to get me home safely. It was there for me on one memorable (and final) Number 19 bus journey, sobbing my eyes out on the phone to my dad when my most life-changing relationship yet fell apart at the bus stop. In that moment, on that last date night pilgrimage between Battersea and Islington, I thought life was truly over (plot spoiler: it’s definitely not).

It’s been dropped on ticket hall floors, Tube floors and under bus seats, and somehow, always found its way back to me. It’s lived inside an array of card holders – each one more grown-up than its predecessor (I started with Primark, and I now have Radley). It’s been forlorn and forgotten in many a handbag, but has always come back when needed most. It’s lived with me in every chapter of my London life, and all the many moves from one mouldy flat share to the next – starting in Zone 6 Kingston, catapulting to Zone 1 Chelsea, and finally happily settling in Zone 3 Tooting.

Far from its beginnings in Tottenham Hale’s ticket hall, and the love bites, mascara-stained cheeks and clueless Tube geography that came with our first encounter, my Oyster now lives an altogether less exciting life – serving mostly as a vessel for that sacred Zone 1-3 travel card and its role as supporting actor in my very own commuter rat race. But its presence is as undeniable as ever. I don’t know if my love affair with London will survive the next five years, but I have no doubt that my beaten up, abused, well-travelled, haggered but still functioning Oyster card will.