Who's a pretty bird?

It's been a while since I've sat at my fish tank and really watched the world for a while. Today, however, was not going to be one of those days when I could. I wanted to kill time before I met a friend after work, and decided that I could also do some marking for my supervisor. I walked in with a familiar air and hugged one of my favourite baristas, an Italian girl with my kind of hint of chic about her (I just love her eyes, perfectly ott without looking awful). We chatted a bit before I got my coffee and took up a seat in front of the window. I pulled out an essay and started reading through it.

I was halfway through this rather awful piece of work (I saw my former self in it quite a bit, which made me cringe quite a bit - and hopefully I'll never go back there), when I looked up I saw a somewhat odd thing. As I've said before, the best thing about Soho is that it is open to anything, and you are bound to see everything there. It was a woman crossing the street with a grey parrot perched on her shoulder. I think it was the non-chalant way this woman was going about her business, or perhaps the fact that only ONE person actually turned to watch this person walk by (other than myself), everyone else walked passed her, on their own business. Nobody took the time to look at this woman with a parrot on her shoulder. How many people had passed her and muttered "argh!" as they saw her? How many people looked on in wonder as they watched the bird sit there calmly as it was being given a free ride? How many people wondered why it wouldn't fly off her shoulder? Or perhaps, how many of its feathers had been clipped to present it from flying off?

It struck me that although this woman and her bird were probably not the most peculiar things you'd come across in London, it was still one of those moments that caught you off guard. And one of those moments that brought a strange smile to your face...

** There's going to come a time when I'm not going to be tormented by him, or the memory of his smile. There's going to come a day when I don't show a side that I thought didn't exist. There's going to come a day when I'm actually going to be in control of my feelings, thoughts and concentration. For now though, I'll let my mind wander as my eyes scroll over the words on the page... **

Tea pot head

I have gone back to my old ways, and damn have they come back with a vengeance (f*** the spelling, I'm in no mood to check it). I've locked myself in my room, and thankfully it is for all the right reasons. My work is spread out before me, to my right (all over my bed) and behind me (on the floor). I have finally started writing. It's baby steps at the moment as I'm writing my first draft, 5 pages handwritten and when I type it up, I panic over how juvenile it sounds and wonder just how I could tweak it so that my supervisor won't tell me once again that it's "not at that standard yet".

I've gone through two mugs of tea (it holds about 300ml?) and I'm still feeling the urge to make myself another mug (God bless Tetley's for making those drawstring tea bags). People think I'm mad for having so much caffiene, but in all honesty that's not why I drink it. For some strange and unapparent reason I need a hot beverage as I work. Whether it's reading or writing, I need something like tea or coffee to be around me while I work. I think it serves as some kind of relief or break as I pause for thought or something. My dad tried to make me stop once as he didn't think it was right that someone so young should be drinking so much tea. It wasn't bad in the beginning, until the mugs started getting bigger. When I got my last mug he just flipped and said I was becoming ridiculous in trying to find a bigger mug. So I reasoned with him that it was to make up for my tiny size. He didn't find that cute, and forbade me to find a bigger mug.

Once friends found out how big my mugs were and how much tea I was drinking, I happily earned the nickname 'Teapot head'. I loved it. When I moved to London and couldn't bring my crockery, I went out to find myself a mug. It wasn't exactly the same, but I managed to find my size and proudly showed it off to my gran. She was shocked that I felt I needed a mug of that size, but my little cousin burst out with "awww! I want one!" Well child, when you hit your 20's and find the superficial need for caffiene and hot drinks, you can have one. For now, (while you're 8) you can have those titchy ones!

In all honesty, it's probably the reason why I love the Starbucks on Wardour Street, why I loved studying there. It was a comfort zone for working as I'd sit by the window sill with a big mug of coffee and just get on with a bit of work. My favourite library in Chancery Lane does not allow food or drink inside, but while I was finishing off my MA dissertation I got in the habit of filling up my thermos at the local Starbucks and slipping it into my bag as I went passed security. When I used to spread my work out at my cubicle nobody said anything as they saw the steaming thermos sitting on my desk.

Ugh, I've ranted again. Or maybe I haven't? Another reason why I love the winter is because I can have my hot drinks all the time... lovely!