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Primrose Hill

I've never been a big believer in New Year's Eve. Aside from last year which I spent drunk and eating garlic bread at my best friend's uni house, they've all been a fairly huge disappointment. But I enjoyed this year. After spending one of the worst days of last year on top of Primrose Hill, this New Year's Eve, I staggered up to the top of it to watch the fireworks over Westminster. I was armed with the dregs of a bottle of Pinot and shoes that were in no-way appropriate for London after a week of rain. Last year was by no means a complete turd heap: I qualified for my Masters, wrote a banging dissertation AND started it with a pun, graduated, started getting paid for my writing, pretended that I helped to run a newspaper that won lots of awards, spent a fun day in A&E after losing a fight with a broken socket box, chased Stephen Fry around the UEA library, finally learned how to write a decent feature, almost made it through my grad ball without crying, ...
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Remember, Remember the 5th of November

Is there such a thing as oversharing? I don't know, let's find out. On Sunday 5th November, I went to the Victoria Park fireworks alone. It's one of the biggest firework displays in London, the event attracts around 70,000 people every year. The park is only a five minute walk from my flat and I know it well, so despite expecting a crowd, I felt fairly comfortable going. However, I was in an emotionally vulnerable state beforehand, and became disorientated and upset as I tried to leave. I ended up being forced along in the direction of the crowd, and out of the gate leading towards Hackney, rather than towards Mile End and home. I was on residential streets, surrounded by people on all sides, most of whom were taller than me and as I tried to push to the non-existent edge of the crowd to get out, I was met by pavement barriers. I couldn't see where I was going, all that I knew was that at that moment I had no choice about going there. I felt my legs starting to give...
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I walk to Oxford Street and climb on the Number 8

“I walk to Oxford Street and climb on the Number 8. It's freezing and it starts to rain and it's the ugliest bus I've ever seen, rattling down the ugliest streets, in the ugliest city, in the ugliest country, in the ugliest of all possible worlds.”   The Late Hector Kipling - David Thewlis Mr Remus Lupin writes fairly well about London. Who knew? In my London, I often walk to Oxford Street and climb on the Number 8.  Not long before the end of the line at Bow Church - having dealt with confused tourists at the British Museum, crawled through the City, and inevitably been thrown up on somewhere around Shoreditch High Street - the Number 8 bus drops me off right by my front door.  It's often "freezing", and almost always "raining". But that is where the similarities with My London and His London end.  Just like our wolfie friend, many would have you believe that London is that ugly city, and it is so because of its 'ugly people'; a col...
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Does not compute; does not commute.

This week I was diagnosed with panic disorder. What for most of my life has been fairly insignificant claustrophobia has turned into a much bigger problem since I moved to London. Heavy crowds are my trigger, so journeys on the Tube regularly transform into a mess of heavy breathing, collapsed knees, and on one occasion, an activated passenger alarm, several men in hi-vis jackets, and lots of confused people at Liverpool Street in the morning peak. My brain cannot compute large numbers of people. Ergo, Caitlin does not commute. Turning up to 9am shorthand classes has been a bloody nightmare. Self-deprecating sarcasm and opportunities for retweets are the only way I know how to deal with things, so I will be writing about this moronic situation in which I find myself.   I'll probably be swearing about it too. The writing might not last very long. At this point, I'm 90% sure I'll be slaughtered by either a Central Line commuter or my shorthand tutor on this side of Ch...
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