Tickets please!

Do you know who I won't miss when we leave London? The miserable man who works in the ticket office at our local station, that's who. Heaven forbid that man should actually speak to you, he has now added throwing your change at you to his repertoire. He doesn't do it quite so well as he does reading his paper and ignoring you - he dropped 5p of my change on the floor as he was hurling it towards me, amature - but I'm sure with all the practice he'll be getting, he'll have it perfected soon.

Leaving London. Part Two.

The last time we left London we went on an 8 month round the world trip. Vowing never to set foot in the Big Smoke again, after the final flight home we lasted two months with my parents before we panicked that our friends would forget us, and we came back. Three years later, we are older, wiser (we now know that our friends will visit us. Promise them fresh air and cake and these people will do anything) and moving the hell out again.

I have a new, fantastic job, working for the brand spanking new University Campus Suffolk and we're going to be living in Norwich (insert Alan Partridge joke here). Both Mr L and I are super excited, and despite my pleas for him not to pack everything up just yet, I came home tonight to a half empty kitchen. I have no idea where our coffee machine is, but I suspect it's in a box somewhere...

So, seven weeks today I will be closing my present library up for the last time. I'll be very sad to leave my job, after a rough-ish start I've grown to really love the library, my colleagues and the library members. Even the consultant who has more questions than the Spanish Inquisition. And after I've locked up the library, I'll head into town to the Knight's Templar where we held our last farewell, and as I'm downing my pitchers of Long Island Iced Tea (thanks Booky B) I'll be keeping my fingers crossed that this time we can stay away for good.

Or at least until December 12th when I see the Manics in Brixton.

Parklife

One of the worst things about living in London is the lack of your own garden, or any outside space. My mum spent the first two years of us living here in an almost constant attempt to buy us a tumble dryer, as the lack of outside drying space for our wet clotehes was giving her sleepless nights. Never mind the fact that our flat at this time was so small a tumble dryer would have taken up the entire kitchen space...

But the lack of garden really comes into it's own when the sun comes out, and you have to walk for thirty minutes to the local park, just to be able to sit outside. I did this on Saturday whilst Mr L had a trip to the library (the closed library. By the way, library, putting the fact that you are closed on a Saturday on your website the follwoing Monday doesn't really count as advanced notice, does it?).

I lasted about an hour and a half in the park, before the general public drove me away. I'd taken my radio, and the batteries died, so all I had to listen to was the Gatwick flight path and other people's conversations. The park was pretty empty, and yet a family still managed to come and sit right by me, in all that empty space....Anyway, the little girl of the family had the same name as me. Now, my name isn't that popular, so when I hear it called, my ears always prick up. And to my credit, I sat through "Abby: "sit down", "don't do that", "come here", "would you like a cheese sandwich?", "would you like a chicken wing?", "would you like a ham sandwich?". Listen Park Mum, all that your poor Abby wanted was a bit of peace and quiet.

The final straw came when looking round the park (in a rare moment of non-Abby bossing) Park Mum declared in a very loud voice "Ah! This must be what people did before television was invented!".

I was home in thirty minutes flat.