Tag Archives: Work

Beside the Seaside

“This is exactly what I wanted from a restaurant tonight,” I’m saying, looking around us. The tablecloth is red and white checked, brick walls lead up to wooden rafters, and the dimmed lights leave work for the candles on each table; it could be the backdrop for a rom com date scene. (Emphasis on the ‘com’ part of the equation, as the four year old at the next table begins a dinner-long tantrum.) I’m glad– Whitstable Oyster Company was not our first choice, but the Sportsman books up 6 months in advance, Salt Marsh was closed for a private function, and Birdies had no space for us.

On Friday Sam picked me up from work on his motorcycle, and we zoomed down the A2 to Whitstable, just over an hour east of London. It was the end of the summer, and we felt like getting away.

“Does the mackerel have bones?” I ask the waiter, suspiciously. “Yes,” she replies.

“And the skate?”

“Yes, but it’s really easy, I promise.”

“Ok, I trust you,” I say, feeling guilty for being the lazy landlubber who hates to work for her food. Sam, probably on a high from conquering his first oyster earlier in the day, has no such qualms, and confidently orders the whole plaice. “It’s going to have the head,” I say, making a face.

We had spent the day wandering between cafes and pubs, drinking oyster stout on the beach and then shimmying up to the four-person counter in Wheelers for fresh seafood. It may have been around since 1856, but Wheelers Oyster Bar is almost knowingly timeless; it’s easy to imagine the pink and blue storefront rolling its eyes at the news that Pantone has picked Rose Quartz and Serenity as the joint 2016 colours of the year.

“I’m so happy right now,” I say to Sam.


“Here, yes, but right now. Everything is just beginning.” We just reached the one year countdown to our wedding; I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching about the direction of my career and have, for the hundredth time, decided to push the fear aside and act instead. I worry that I am not good enough at work. Sam is good at ensuring me otherwise: There’s loads of stuff about how women only apply for jobs they think they’re capable of, whereas men apply for senior positions because they just think they can, he Whatsapps me on Friday. I don’t want to be a victim of the confidence gap. I want to be a woman of Beyoncé strength and Sara Blakely smarts.

“Ok, I think I’m bored now,” I say on our way back to the Airbnb, a charming cottage once home to William Somerset Maugham. “I’ve really enjoyed today, but I’m glad we live in London.” It’s just gone 10pm and a couple in front of us have stumbled out of a pub playing 90s anthems and straight into an Indian takeaway.

“Well,” Sam replies, matter-of-factly, “then it was a perfect weekend away.”


People Who Brunch

Brunch time on Saturday. Sam and I are squeezing ourselves into the middle seats of a picnic table outside of Cafe Route in Dalston, awkwardly trying not to disrupt the already-established pairs on either side. We complete the table; two girls sit opposite one another to my left, discussing their parents’ adjustment to becoming empty nesters and an impending trip to Australia, while on my right two guys with accents are asking the waiter for smoked salmon on the side of eggs benedict.

With the intention of heading over to Voodoo Ray’s for pizza-by-the-slice, we’ve chained our bikes up in Dalston Square. Most of Dalston is comfortably grubby, but Dalston Square is shiny-new and purpose-built, the cafes and restaurants nestled below shining glass tower blocks. We are frequently running or cycling through but we’ve never really looked to see what’s here, so we have wandered over to see which cafes have outdoor seating. We decide to stay. It’s not terribly warm, but it’s warm enough to make the most of.

Once our plates are cleared, the guy next to Sam, Saturday-casual in a t-shirt and backwards baseball cap, asks us if we’re from around here. He’s from Lithuania, but he’s getting ready to move to New York for work as a business development manager at HelloFresh. “Your marketing budget must be insane,” I’m saying, enviously.

He laughs. “We were just talking about how different New Yorkers are. They’ll chat to anyone, anywhere. Londoners, not so much. We were… testing this theory.” I try not to now imagine the situation as a trial by combat, and agree instead. I am being harmonious.

This year you can’t talk about New Yorkers without talking about Donald Trump. The four of us are equally appalled. “People are voting emotionally. It’s happening everywhere,” the guy next to me is saying. He’s about to move from Dalston to Notting Hill. “I’d rather stay around here– east– but my friends and I found a really good deal. We didn’t even see the place before we agreed on it,” he says with a hint of a shrug. Finding accommodation in London is not for the faint of heart, and definitely not for the choosy. He tells us he’s Romanian.

“Romania is a completely underrated country,” his Lithuanian friend states, nodding. I admit I’d like to visit. The Romanian sighs. “Romania is beautiful, it’s just been destroyed by its politicians. But that’s another story.”