Moving to London and stuff.

It has been almost three months since my last blog post on September 20th, eighty eight days to be precise. Since then we’ve lost the great Nelson Mandela, we’ve been enlightened on the cocaine habits of Nigella, and we’ve had to endure yet ANOTHER series of X Factor with Louis Walsh proclaiming each week that his latest prepubescent protege was still “ONLY SEVENTEEYYYN”. It can’t be a coincidence that the following day, September 21st, I hung up my flat cap, waved goodbye to Ted the whippet, and fled my Northern hometown to try my luck at life in the Big Smoke.

You’d think moving to one of the most vibrant and culturally rich cities in the world would be the perfect inspiration for writing a blog. So why has it taken me so long to put pen to paper, fingertips to keypad?

In my defence, I spent the first few weeks without a wifi connection, which is the modern day equivalent of a hunger strike. And it’s only recently that I’ve managed to stop crying myself to sleep over the sheer scale of the rent and other bills, so my mind has been elsewhere. But excuses aside, I’ve not really felt like writing. When travelling earlier this year, each day was a unique onslaught to the senses. I was blogging as though my life depended on it. If I wasn’t jumping 12,000 feet out of a plane, I was doing something equally as skid-mark inducing.

I may have temporarily lost the appetite for writing and blogging, but I’ve really enjoyed myself here. Turnham Green is my patch, where I share a (rather dubiously listed) two bedroom flat with my brother. I’m in the ‘compact’ bedroom with a bed small enough for Ronnie Corbett to complain about its size. I’m the cook of the house, producing countless money saving meals with help from my ‘Saving with Jamie’ cookbook. To be honest, I’ve been quite surprised at the results. Give me five loaves and two fish, and I may not be able to feed the five thousand, but I’ll make a very tasty ‘Fish and Bread Surprise’. I work in Hammersmith and in Fulham, which is only about 30 minutes away on the dreaded District Line. For part of my duties, I drive a red van along the streets of London, not quite in the sky diving league, but nonetheless quite ‘skid-mark inducing’ at times. All in all, the transition from my pie eating, pipe smoking, whippet racing, pigeon fancying – I’ve given up the latter thanks to Stacey – life up North to life down South has been memorable.

And with the New Year just around the corner, I will make a resolution here and now. I, Charles David Whitfield, pledge to you, the reader, to write and blog more. If I don’t, you have permission to hit me over the head with a wet fish, though don’t be surprised if I turn your weapon into a tasty budget meal for two.

Merry Christmas x

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