ketchup. hurry up. KETCHUP. (now I'm thinking of dancing hot dogs.)

So i went and did more random stuff.

How bad a post would that sentence be. Edit: I pooped about in Oxford Circus, observed expensive things, walked to Piccadilly Circus, which is the coolest place, full of theater and restaurants that are smell torture if you've not eaten in five hours and been walking all of them, which I had. Then I had a crazy adventure. In Dagenham. First things first.

Oxford Circus contains the biggest H&M, Urban Outfitters, and aforementioned Topshop I've ever seen. And other spendy shops. It looks like so: (not my picture)

Then I walked. And walked. And walked. And walked. I saw a kid my own age, slumped next to a building, clutching his paper cup of coffee despondently. He was sitting on a duffel, and I didn’t know if he was homeless or just a tired traveler. The poor guy looked so utterly done in that I came really close to asking if he was all right. Didn't. ppppttt.

Piccadilly Circus. Really is like a circus. I will go sit there sometime, and act like I'm part of the architecture. It's like a picture from a history book. The beautiful old buildings towering over the various streets, the red buses scurrying, the pedestrians scurrying even harder. Picture. Again, not mine.

Then this is Theatreland. This precise Les Miserables poster is there as we speak. type. whatevs.

I then went home and was tired. but happy.

now. Dagenham. Dagenham Heathway, to be precise. I went there to get a bike. It required me to take the District Line nearly all the way to the east end. Long ride. I got there, and walked about three miles to get to the bike. I asked so many people for directions. A girl in chinos and flats clipping her hedge, a grandma in her trench coat, and this rather nerdily attractive kid my own age with green eyes, and brown hair flopping in them. The older woman literally shied away from me when I started to talk. I’ve never seen someone look so afraid of me: her eyes looked terrified. She warmed up though. “Oh yes, Green Lane, just go through that alley there, take a left, then a right in the next alley!” I was supposed to be there at a certain time, and though I had drawn a map, I wanted to be sure.

All that said, I got the bike, reduced the price by five pounds by being snarky, and began to ride home. Then, oh, then, I took a wrong turn. It was getting dark, and let's just say it was not a ritzy neighborhood. The street signs are difficult. They're on buildings, fences, sometimes not in sight at all if you don't know where to look. Yes, I know, I'm a newbie. And it was raining. I backtracked and asked directions again. I thought the road he indicated was the one I'd come in on: after five minutes, realized it wasn't so. At that point, the panicky thought crossed my mind: "WHAT IF I CAN'T GET HOME!!!!?? what if the tube doesn't run as late as it does in the city, what if I get more lost, what if i miss the first day of corsetry, what if i shrink and fall in the gutter in the rain.." There is only one thing to tell your brain at a time like that and it's Kindly Shut Up Please. Now, Some Logic. Oh look, that street sign points the way to the street you're trying to get to. and you are going the direction it points in. Keep. Pedaling. Look, a main street. A hill. I recall a hill by the station...and BEHOLD! the beautiful red and blue circle-and-dash of the London Underground. In the rain, me hauling my tired bike and sore calves up the slope, it was more gorgeous than...i don't know. Eddie Redmayne. And that's saying something.

Then onto the train, folding my little bike neatly at my feet, and reading the laughable Evening Standard as night fell. Something as simple as sitting down is occasionally wonderful. That was Sunday/Monday. I had a stellar class that morning that you'll hear about, but it must go in the Skool post. A place for everything, and everything in its place. to end, here's what the tube looks like, if you were wondering.

Brit-ism of the day: Keep Calm and Carry On.

Where I Find Rob?

Children, heed my words. If you ever travel the London Underground on a weekend, CHECK FOR CONSTRUCTION. Yours truly was attempting to get her hands on this lovely little vintage folding bike here

But was foiled. Not really. But for the moment. I got to the station, and the sign says “oh yes. By the way, there is construction on the line you want.” Ok, thought I, this is all interconnected, I can get beyond the construction on some other line. Onto the Piccadilly line we go. Get to alternate line. “oh, this one’s down too.” Phhhhpppp. At this point, since I’m supposed to be there to pick the bike up in 45 min, I call the nice man, who agrees to hold it for me till Monday, when I can just ride District all the way. Hooray. However, I blew 8 pounds in the process. Boo.
The experience which came next, however, was worth every pence of those 8 pounds. I was sitting on a chair outside the Hammersmith station, when a terrifyingly beefy woman in leggings sitting next to me turns and says in a very thick German accent, “Excuse me, I have question.” Disclaimer: What follows is word for word. I do not make this up.
“Yes?” say I. “
“ I am trying to find my boyfriend, Rob. In 2009, we come here. He was back there.” She points behind her. “At Starbucks?” I say, trying to be helpful.
“No, in 2009, he go to Charing Cross Hospital, Fulham Palace Rd. You know how I find him?”
No. (I didn’t say that.)
What I did say was, “Well, I have an atlas, let me find it.” I poke around in my priceless London A-Z atlas. (they are the best) for five minutes.
“You don’t know, you don’t know how to find him? He was Charing Cross Police.”
at this point I think. LOOK LADY, it was two years ago. You are no longer in touch with him. You were at a hospital? And that is all the info you have on him? FURTHERMORE, can you not tell that I am AMERICAN? Not. A. Londoner. I know no more than you do about Rob. I do not live in this hood.
Fortunately, she asks the quiet fellow next to me, whose gray hair is one big perfect dreadlock. He tells her how to get to Charing Cross Hospital. She then says, “Yes, I get there, but how I find him?” At which I rise, say nicely, “If he was there, I’m sure they have record of it. Ask the people at the front desk. I hope you find him.” And walk away with my internal giggles about to become violently external.

Then I explored expensive, interesting thrift stores that play Lady Antebellum (NOT INTERESTING. Came here to escape that thank you. But I will forgive you because your little orange Prada parka is making me drool.), and ended up with a nice little green hooded raincoat. Which had a transit card in the pocket. So we shall see if my jaunt will be monetarily redeemed. There’s prolly nothing on it. Oh well.

P.S. Said charity shops are located on 211 Brompton Rd, and 3 Bute St., run by Octavia Foundation.