One month down, struggling to sit still.

I've come to the end of my first month in London and, significantly, the end of my first box of Scott's Porage Oats. A box so seemingly abundant that I was starting to suspect someone had been filling it back up with more oats each night as a prank. Which would be a hilarious prank for anyone's morning cereal that I encourage you to try out.

Here's a comprehensive list of all the things I can't do on a belly full of oats:

1. Complain.

It's human super-fuel (or perhaps super-human fuel) and has kept me warm and my legs spinning while cycling through some of London's drizzliest, stormiest weather.

This also marks the longest time I've spent unbroken in one (foreign) country. My border hopping days will come again soon but for now I'm trying to adjust to a more sedentary pace and I must confess, I'm rather struggling with it.

I have a morning routine with the same cereal. I paid rent the other day. I frequently turn up and work for a company. My bicycle sleeps indoors. I know the names of all the people in the building I'm sleeping in. I'm sleeping in a building! There are currently 11 of us - 4 Kiwis, 2 Italians, 2 Lithuanians, 2 Spanish and 1 French - So it feels rather like a hostel. That may sound like a crowded cesspit but it's a spacious, 3 storey home with a large kitchen and dining area and we enjoy each other's company in the evenings.

This is my house

There are many like it

But this one is mine

The view outside my bedroom window

The days of cycling through new parts of Europe every day and living out of my hammock tent are close to my heart, but a few months behind me. I'm itching to get going again but won't do so until May when a posse I'm forming and I will travel down the Rhine.

Instead of packing my saddle bags with everything I own each morning, I'm packing trucks full of other people's belongings. And doing a damn fine job, might I add.

Not your average knots

I was barely trying here. This truck is a long way from full.

I've been losing the sense of journey that I usually enjoy while away and this has had me fretting, because I want life to be a journey wherever I'm at. I have a deep fear of eventually returning to New Zealand and having the "journey" finish completely. Learning to retain that sense of progress in my lifestyle here seems vitally important to being able to carry it on one day back at home.

It really comes down to a matter of perspective and I've had to shake myself out of some gloom lately and push myself to go and do things here in London. Having a home is dangerous because I can just sit around inside it moping. Each time I kick myself out of the door and say, "Go and do something!" it usually turns out really well and I start to wonder what I was complaining about.

I went and saw a musical the other night based on one of my favourite movies, "Once." In it, a handsome singer-songwriter (who I find I can identify with) finds himself stagnant and moping around Dublin, giving up on all of his dreams. A girl comes along and shakes him out of his mournful reverie and gets him living again before they part ways. Still waiting on my girl, but it reiterated to me that there's always something going on, people to connect with, passions to pursue, and that life is an unbroken sequence of transitional phases, so don't allow yourself to take a turn on the bench, believing that you're waiting to get somewhere, you ARE somewhere, all the time. Enjoy it.

Here's me enjoying wonderful things, like...

Capturing evidence of a vandal down on Brick Lane, London's curry shop street.

Being the first to photograph the entrance to the British History Museum.

Feeling intimidated by a nose-less Pharaoh face. 

Admiring a blend of new and old architecture.

Admiring a blend of new and old architecture.

Staring at the sea, wistfully wishing it would whisk me away to distant things beginning with W.

Taking a brochure-worthy photo of an old dock-side inn in Portsmouth. I love these.

I hear tales of abundant fruit trees lavishing upon my family's house back in One Tree Hill. It just sounds so wonderful and I'm reminded that in the trade-off of being away, I'm missing much at home, so all the more reason for me to make the most of where I'm at.

I've found a singing tutor here and had a few great lessons. I've popped into 2 open mic nights now. Neither was quite the venue I require... One had the soccer (football here) playing right next to the stage so half the people present were listening to the artists and the other half were drunk and erupting in raucous cheering and insults to the ref, somewhat disconcerting when you're performing to have a crowd scream, "NOOOOO!!!" while you're mid-verse and someone call out, "You fucking idiot!"

The other gig was at the "Electric Social" where there was an odd mix of a country singing couple, a rapper with backing track, a really dark poet (her first poem was called "Fuck You"), a normal enough guitar guy, a crazy hard dance DJ whose face or even skin I never saw because he wore a black mask, red hoody, gloves and track-pants and what I'm going to call giant space shoes. Oh and there was me with my banjo, trying to find my place among it. If anyone knows of any more quintessentially folk clubs in London, let me know.

I leave you with this alluring add for Icelandic tourism that's been all over the tube lately.

Hence the term.

Waitangi Day

Lost? Here, let us help you.

After finishing a half day shifting furniture on Saturday, I decided to pop along to the famous (or infamous) Waitangi Day Circle Line Pub Crawl. I didn't have very high expectations, assuming that by my 2pm arrival, with a 10am start, I'd just be embarrassed for my country as young alcoholics gave us a bad name. But not at all!

What I witnessed was the most touching display of patriotism I've ever seen. The COSTUMES!!! Oh, they were better than brilliant. Filled with utter shame that I hadn't brought one of my own, I turned my wool lined jacket inside out and told people I was a sheep, but deep down I knew I'd failed my country and still feel the burn.

But it was a walk down memory lane! A full staff of Georgie Pie crew, Mr Whippy, a packet of Maggi Onion Soup Mix (yes, these were all costumes), Kiwis, Sheep, The Longest Drink In Town, and moving on to more recent figures like Lord, Alamein aka Shogun of the Crazy Horse gang (see movie: Boy) and the beached as whale, bobbing above wherever the crowd was thickest.

Sadly, that didn't actually have any pies.

Also, weren't serving shakes.

We moved down to Westminster Abbey by 4pm where a Haka was rumoured to be happening. I unbuttoned my shirt cuffs in preparation, in case I had to get bare-chested quickly, but the crowd was too thick for most to see it and join in - the Haka bit, not the bare-chested bit. Disappointed we couldn't contribute to the Haka, Jamie suggested we kick of the National Anthem instead. With my big voice booming it triggered a surge and I'm going to say hundreds joined us. Who can prove me wrong? It was loud, anyway.

"Oh I'm beached as..."

I was proud of my people. The police present had all volunteered for the event and seemed to be having almost as much fun as we were. They found Helen's wallet and phone (dangerous combination case) after it fell in the crowd. Her life had instantly unraveled for 5 minutes until they were reunited. I think I was more relieved for Jamie than Helen. Does anyone not know my wonderful friends Jamie and Helen? Great couple and my largest London magnet.

After drinking half the night on Saturday, I was feeling decidedly hung over when I turned up on my bicycle to shift furniture early Sunday morning. Having thrown up a desperate breakfast of water (must hydrate!) I gingerly worked my way through a McD's hash brown but couldn't manage the muffin as well, for fear it would revisit while I carried someone else's furniture up and down stairs, up and down stairs, up and down stairs...

I've been working just over a week now for Kiwi Movers. The pay isn't great and the hours aren't regular or promised, but it's been fantastic for seeing into the home and lives of some of the richer elite of London. You know, the sort who pay other people to shift their furniture and buy 3000 pound lamps - a very stressful delivery. They didn't actually pay that for it (RRP), they got it for the special low price of 1450 pounds! What a huge saving!

The best part is we work out of the Royal Victoria Patriotic Building. Think Hogwarts. This thing is absolutely beautiful. It was built in 1858, "intended for the education and training of 300 orphan daughters of soldiers, seamen and marines that perished in the Russian War." Sounds like a warm thought, but there was no heating for the winter, group showers with a hose in the courtyard and the preferred cure or preventative measure for head lice was to keep all of the girls shaved bald.

Currently no snow, but this is what a better photographer managed to snap once.

It became a hospital for 1800+ soldier patients during WWI, returned to schooling purposes, then in WWII it was the London Reception Centre. What does that vague name mean? Not warm welcomes. It was an alien clearing station for MI6, Britain's leading counter espionage organisation that oversaw deportations, interrogations, imprisonment and executions of many, many suspected/confirmed spies. The walls there hold many secrets, strange and sad. A wondrous place to mull over an ale at the in-house pub. It now houses a drama and performing arts schools, several small leased offices, including Kiwi Movers, and has residential rooms for rent - upgraded from the early days, they now have heated, self contained units, private showers and they

let you keep your hair.

The Courtyard - No more group showers, sadly.

I'll be trying my hand as a kitchen hand this Friday at The Garden Shed Pub - A new Kiwi owned premise that specializes in gourmet pizzas. If I feel it's not going well, I suppose I'll just run off with some gourmet pizzas. Can't really lose.

Job Hunting

"If you are looking for a degree or other tertiary qualifications, I can tell you I don't have any. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me an ideal employee for people like you."

Not actually me, just a similarly hung and dangerous look-a-like.

This last week has been a strange and humbling experience for me. I last applied for a job about 8 years ago, back when I had very little to offer but my rampant enthusiasm. Since then, I've become some kind of super skilled, highly professional, experienced guy, but I don't seem to be able to translate my value outside of a policing context. It was not fun writing my CV, as I seem to lack experience in all the roles I am applying for. Something like this would be ideal... [Henchmen for hire] 

I've sent out somewhere between 50-100 emails in the past week to various pubs, outdoors stores and cycling stores, as well as popping by in person to say hello and let my rugged good looks and boyish charm win them over. But, amazingly, they don't seem to share my high view of myself. Very few replies. I'm a bit limited with my availability as I'll be off on my bike come May. That's cost me one job already, post-interview. A bike shop I interviewed at said they really like me, but ended up choosing a guy who actually knew something about bikes (You pedal them. Did I miss something?). I interviewed for a managers position at an outdoors store today which seemed to go well, but it'll be another week before I hear back. I'm so impatient...

In the mean time, I just had my first shift (literally) with Kiwi Movers. A positively racist furniture shifting company in London that had me running furniture up and down four flights of stairs most of the day, sweating like a man who's running furniture up and down four flights of stairs. Appropriate, and I believe a set a new benchmark. The work can be irregular so I'll keep searching around, but it's something to keep me busy and fit in the mean time.

Speaking of mean time, I enjoyed a ferry trip down the Thames to Greenwich the other day. Not only where time comes from, but where the longitude is zero! Enabling the good folk at Nauticalia to proudly boast they are the first shop in the world. I didn't go inside, for fear I'd end up buying an 8kg brass and mahogany "bicycle compass". We all know I'm capable of that.

Having a mean time in Greenwich.

For all your nautical needs...

London is full of surprises. Popping out of the Westminster tube station the other day I was confronted with Big Ben. Well, it turns out I was confronted with a clock tower, as later, the ferry tour operator asked us all if we could see Big Ben. I gleefully nodded my head, but then he said it was a trick question and Big Ben was the name of the bell inside the clock tower, which was not actually visible. The clock tower was just part of the Palace of Westminster. "So there, you have not seen Big Ben." I repressed an urge to tell him that his head was not actually a dick, yet due to its inner content that was a sufficient label for me. Bubble burster. 

Disclaimer: NOT Big Ben. You CANNOT see Big Ben.

The London "I" - Looks more like an "O".

I swear there's a joke here, but I'm unable to find it.

Holy Ship! Digging the rigging.

That's all I have to offer you right now. Hopefully in another week I'll have a stable job. Hey, stable jobs! I wonder if that's still a thing here? Didn't England invent the horse?