Another Long Weekend in London: Part I

 

(freedesignfile)

6 min. read

The day before I catch the Eurostar to London in early June, I hear back about a job for which I’ve been interviewed the week before. It went well. Or so I think. One of the panellists is a middle-aged goth with sleeve tattoos. I’ve never seen a potential employer so casually dressed for an interview.

I try to be philosophical about the outcome, whatever it might be. Nonetheless, it still hits hard when the ‘thanks, but no thanks’ comes. It’s the third time I’ve been interviewed by this organisation. Somewhat ironically, I find these experiences constructive. The organisation is always willing to give encouraging feedback and I can indirectly credit them for helping me obtain my previous job.

All this to say that by the time I make this UK trip, I’m shattered on several levels. I think back to this time last year and wonder if anything has moved forward. It feels to the contrary.

My London visits tend to be unconsciously timed when I need them most. I’d already long decided to go in early June, to coincide with the Pentecost long weekend in Belgium. I figured if I were back in work, I wouldn’t require as much annual leave. I didn’t take into account the possible overlap with the Queen’s 70^th Jubilee celebrations the same weekend. The staunch anti-monarchist that I am, I find all that jingoistic and royalist fervour highly disagreeable. However, the extra public holidays mean that, in theory, family and friends should be more available.

If only it were that straightforward.

Adding to my existing neuroses is the sluggish response to my meet-up invitations, if I receive a reply at all.  A looser-than-loose acquaintance randomly contacts me out of the blue, for example. She’s glad to hear I’ll be in the country soon and apparently keen to catch-up. The same individual evaporates when I attempt to make concrete plans, only to re-emerge after my return to Belgium. (A number of other potential meet-ups go the same way.)

I’ve tried to be laissez-faire but don’t pull it off as well as I did during March’s visit. I have been more ambitious with my itinerary this time. Whereas at one moment it looked as if I’d struggle to see everyone within the five-day window, I end up having a number of gaps in my diary. I already feel relationally insecure in Europe. The last thing I need is to confront the idea that several of my UK-based circle are no longer invested.

One major upturn on this holiday – and it is a big one – is that my mum’s accommodation situation is finally stable. I’m no longer reliant on friends or Airbnb for digs. Mum’s new pad isn’t just suitable, it’s lovely. Luminous, good layout and with pristine communal areas, it’s also strategically-situated near a railway station with direct trains into central London. It’s in a part of the City mum has always liked and a stone’s throw from my UK church.

Mum can at last seriously indulge her inner-interior designer. The flat is transformed from the last time I saw it in its bare, if still impressive state. The décor is tastefully coordinated and my house-proud mother has everything systematically arranged and neatly stored away. With a mix of admiration and intimidation I learn that she assembled most of the furniture all on her jones, including the book shelf where much of my formerly scattered collection has now found a home. 

I’m both relieved and apprehensive to once again in close quarters with mum. I’ve been in a particularly lachrymose state. I don’t want to infect her with my melancholy. She’s feeling upbeat. Plus, she's still a mother and prone to worry. I also know in her eagerness to help, she’s wont to be hyper-pragmatic. It’s well-intentioned but not always helpful. I fear tension and bickering.

Yet, once we reconnect at the train station and head towards her serene new accommodation, the trepidation begins to dissipate. If I ignore all the union-jacks, as well as commerce using over-stretched royal puns to cash in on the Jubilee, there's a relief that comes with being back on this side of the Channel. One of the reasons I wanted to leave London was the cost of living and the frenetic pace. None of these have changed. If not they’ve intensified. I spend more on a week’s commute than I would during a month in Europe. Yet, I’m reminded of other advantages. There’s by and large a greater civility in the UK than I experience on the Continent. I’d never considered Londoners to be especially polite. Quite the opposite in fact. Now, I appreciate better those basic courtesies I once took for granted.

I’m also proud to see so many of my fellow Afrodescendants walking boldly in their melanated-glory. I spot more black couples than I recall seeing in times past. My heart does a little jig at the sight of groups of chocolate goddesses (as it does anywhere in the world). I notice several folk walking around in broad daylight with their protective night bonnets, unabashed. It's gangster. A new fashion statement, mum says. Or just us being unashamed about our non-European hair routines. The UK is also streets ahead (as usual) than its mainland European counterparts when it comes to representation. As on other recent visits, I see a number of deep brown faces fronting various ad campaigns on and off screen. There are also notably more black staff working at Eurostar.

(visitgreenwich.org.uk)

Back at mum’s, I unpack at leisure ahead of a trip to a nearby retail park. I have more spare time than I anticipated. A friend contacts me last minute to pull out of our evening social. He’s unwell and apologetic. I feel for him but am also a bit crushed. This disappointment does nevertheless mean more quality time with mum. My trip coincides with her first proper stay in her new home. The furniture and electronics are all set up but the food cupboards are bare. Our shopping trip allows me to pick up bargain-priced essentials and indulgences not available in Belgium. The weather is splendid; even better than forecast. I’m too warm in my short sleeved jumper, tights and boots. Wandering round the vast Aldi’s at Greenwich Peninsula’s all-encompassing retail park, I spy an old classmate from secondary school. I hesitate over whether to catch her attention. I take the high road. She gives me a rictus grin and less-than-sincere pleasantries, reminding me of why I was hesitant in the first instance. I derive more pleasure than I probably should from telling her I currently live in Brussels.

The afternoon and early evening vanish. Mum and I divvy up the remainder of the flat-related tasks. I lumber home with a new ironing board. That evening we rustle up a late dinner in front of Kramer vs Kramer. All day, I’ve been vocal about how self-conscious I am regarding my yet-to-manifest weight loss. My even more-regimented eating hasn’t gone unnoticed. Where mum once would be amongst the first to comment on any weight-related matters, she’s become much more discreet with the years. When not encouraging me to be patient, she prefers to change the subject. She’s definitely on to something when she tells me that current stress levels might be counter-productive to my goals. The evidence appears to back her up. I can trace this current impasse to the time things really started to go South for me at work in Strasbourg, three years ago. There's an unburdening that comes with making this connection. I knew something wasn't right. Beyond wanting a trimmer silhouette, I’m more determined than ever to take care of my mental well-being.

Mum and I have heart-to-hearts about any number of things. She asks if I miss the UK. I’m not sure how to respond. I certainly missed seeing family and friends when I was at my loneliest in Strasbourg or Brussels and travel restrictions didn’t permit. There are things I value a lot more now that I’m not based in the UK (see above). Yet I’m not homesick for the country itself. The overall political climate and rocketing cost of living – even before the current crisis – don’t entice me to return in the immediate future. If these key factors weren’t at play, as well as certain career considerations, I’d be a lot more inclined to return for the long term.

(courtesy of Depositphotos.com)

Mum also has some sage nuggets about my relational frustrations. She’s seen it from both sides; as the under-valued friend and the one poor at communicating.

You’re not the norm, she claims, you make a consistent effort to chase people up. Many – herself included – have good intentions but aren’t the best at follow through. She implores me not to change. It’ll stand you in good stead.

I'm not entirely convinced. Decades of this lark and I’m still waiting for it to pay off properly. It’s nonetheless a relief to be reminded that I shouldn’t take these lapses in communication too personally.

As some sort of cosmic confirmation of mum's wisdom, I run into Keisha, an old church acquaintance. She has come to mind from time to time but, contrary to habit, I haven’t reached out for a while. Partly because I’m not sure how well she’d remember me. Perhaps subconsciously in fear of of being rebuffed.

Nah, you’ve forgotten us, she jokes. Keisha looks well. Still into fitness and having shed recent pregnancy pounds. Baby number two is nearly a year old and she’s just started a new job. We discuss how society and internal pressures make it hard for women to ‘have it all’, whilst men escape the same levels of scrutiny, judgment and guilt. It’s a good if intense catch-up in the five minutes it takes for my bus to arrive. We promise to chat properly at church on Sunday. Alas, our paths won’t cross again that weekend.

Soundtrack: Remastered Hits-Vol. 2 by Toots Thielemans

Part 2  Part 3