Cheerio, London.

The day has somehow come. In just a few hours I have to leave this city that has truly become my home, and everyone in it that has truly become like family.

Living in New York was something I always knew I'd do, and I felt at home from the minute I arrived and loved it everyday I was there. But leaving it was surprisingly easy. I was ready for something new. 

Living in Paris was a dream I fulfilled, everyday was like a fairytale to me, and while I didn't want to leave I knew I had to. I knew I couldn't stay there forever.

But living in London was something I never thought I'd do, and now I want to stay forever. At first, it was harder, scarier, and lonelier that I thought it would be, but I made it through the bad bit, and the result was incredible. I realized quite unexpectedly that I was totally in love, and what was more important -  I realized I can make it on my own. I came here not knowing a soul, not having a thing, and a mere year later I built an entire life for myself. So having to leave now, when I am honestly happier than I've ever been, when everything is perfect -  is, as the English say, "gutting.

I spent the morning sipping skinny lattes and peeling several flaky, buttery, layers off croissants with my two co-workers at a goodbye breakfast. I stocked up on biscuits and tartan-topped jams at my favorite spot on the King's Road, and on the way back to the office I snapped a final photo on the street where I lived, and said a proper goodbye to Chelsea.

Cheerio, Chelsea

I got several sugary sweet, goodbye gifts and cards this week from friends and co-workers, among my favorites is a mug-coaster in the shape of a digestive biscuit, and my new "english rose" ring, which I will be wearing daily to always have a bit of England with me.

But one card, from my dear friend Sarah who is my English twin, actually broke my heart into tiny bits when I opened it.

It has been lovely, and I am act-tually in sincere denial about the fact that I am leaving. I can't imagine that I am no longer going to hear British accents when I'm out and about, no longer going to break for tea and digestives everyday at 3pm, no longer to browse Borough market on a Saturday afternoon, no longer going to pop into the Tate for fun, no longer sit outside the pub with a cold lager and a group of mates while day turns into night.

So my bags are packed, but I'm not ready to go.
I cried the whole plane ride here, and I have a feeling I'm going to cry the whole plane ride to New York. But I know in my heart that I will be back soon. Whether it's just for a wee-kend, or a proper visit, or maybe for good....England's really just a stone's throw away.

So cheers, London. It's lit-trilly been fantastic.

Tearful Goodbyes

Tuesday night was the first time I had to say goodbye to people here, for the last time.

Coming to London, I was sad to leave friends and family in New York, but I knew that I would see them again. I knew I'd be back in a year and they would come visit and nothing would change.

But leaving London, I have to say goodbye to people here not knowing when or if I will see them again - and it's fright-fully sad.

When I first got here, I joined a small group at HTB in order to make some friends, and I was immediately adopted by the most wonderful group of people here, many of whom have become my dearest mates. I've spent every Tuesday and Sunday with them for the past 11 months, always doing a different activity. Bowling, going for NY style pizza, murder mystery parties, many, many trips to the pub, cook-outs, cook-ins, watching the Brit awards, celebrating Fat Tuesday over crepes, celebrating 4th of July over hotdogs, movie nights, cramming into the Big Easy for lobster dinners, and of course many, many wonderful evenings spent in worship and prayer together.

My final Tuesday at our group outting was emotional, to say the least. As the end drew near, all my friends gathered around me, laid a hand on my shoulders and started to pray for me, and I began to sob at the realization that I had to leave these incredible people, and leave this amazing church; for good.

It was then that I realized there really isn't a gram of me that wants to go back to America right now. I have come to love everything about living here so much, that I can't come up with a single good reason for leaving.

Several of my English guy friends have seriously offered to married me, saying "actually Anna - you would be a fantastic wife," but I've always dreamed of marrying in Paris for love - not eloping in England to get a VISA. A sham wedding is not the answer, so I have to believe that I am meant to go back, for some reason or another, and accept it. To fight my oncoming depression, I'm planning a UK visit for my annual birthday trip. I have my choice of British friends to stay with, and the promise of a homemade Victoria Sponge with candles for a birthday cake. Sounds jolly good to me!

I've been doing an excellent job of fitting in several great treats and meals before taking off.
I got to try the newly opened Cafe Colbert this week on a long lunch break with my friend Amy, since he dad is the genius behind the place. It's French, it's adorable, and it's right in the middle of Sloane Square. In other words, it's perfection.

We tucked into a red leather booth facing out to the rest of the cafe and both ordered un salade et une noisette. It was a remarkably sunny day in England and the sunshine was streaming through the giant windows of the restaurant, illuminating every face inside. The place was been open three days, but feels like it's been there for thirty years, plucked out of a quaint corner in Paris and dropped in London.

Last night I had my last leaving dinner at the gallery at Sketch, a very unique restaurant that feels more like an awesome art museum than a place to eat.

They are known for their "pod loos:" bathrooms that are individual pods, all stark white standing in an equally stark white room that is reminiscent of a set from an alien movie. It's quite weird, but quite cool.

The pod loos

The gallery is a rainbow-colored room with tables and chairs of every discernable shape and size, mix-matched china and cuttlerly and menus that are pop-up books. The menu is as unique and funky as the room itself, like Winter Pumpkin Soup, with sweet corn ice cream, popcorn, and goat cheese, and a beef and foie gros burger with french fries and xeres jelly.

The Gallery

But nothing surpassed my cocktail, aptly named "The Duchess" and served in a vintage teapot and poured into a teacup once it arrived at the table.

Teacup Cocktails at Sketch

It's all very whimsical, and almost looks and feels like a set from Tim Burton's "Alice and Wonderland," so it was an appropriate spot for a final, English dinner with my favorite London girls. Dinner progressed into pudding, and pudding progressed into 2 bottles of champagne at the lounge next door, talking about the that passed so quickly, until we were properly tipsy and embracing in a tearful goodnight in front of the Green Park tube station. 

I woke up this morning to my last, full day of living in London. I pushed aside the duvet, and stuck my hot pink toes into my tulip-print clog slippers I picked up from Holland, and went downstairs to make a cup of English breakfast. As I passed the window I saw it was grey, damp, and wonderfully rainy outside, and it made me smile. A quintessentially British day for my last day. I wouldn't want it any other way. 

The Finale

Last night I organized a post-work outing to the Royal Ballet. When I found out they were doing Swan Lake, one of my favorite ballets, there was no way I was not going.

Going to the ballet is quite possibly my favorite way to spend an evening. I prefer it to any other form on entertainment. I go into a sort of trance once the orchestra starts and the thick, velvet curtain draws back to reveal layers of pink tulle and perfectly pointed toes. It's just so beautiful.

I have a particular fondess for Swan Lake for a few reasons. The score is perhaps Tchaikovsky's greatest masterpiece, and for me it's completely transportive. I can close my eyes and completely lose my surroundings, my thoughts... just consume myself in the danses des cygnes.  

The costumes of Swan Lake are particularly gorgeous. The rows of fluffy, feathered tutus and headpieces of the corps de ballet, Odette's gorgeous, stark-white and rhinestone tutu and Odile's contrasting jet-black one. It's ballet couture, and when the corps flocks onto the stage for the first time, one after the next, their arms sharply floating up and down in unison as the tulle of their skirts sway, I have to remind myself to breathe.

les cygnes

And then, of course, there is the love story.

I am a romantic, and I have a particular fondness for impossible love stories. So a Prince who happens falls in love at first sight with a beautiful princess, under the spell of an evil sorcerer and doomed to spend her days as a swan swimming in a lake of tears until a virgin prince swears his undying love to her, gets me every time.

The climax of the story is when the Black Swan, Odile, ruins everything by seducing Siegfried under the direction of the Sorcerer who cast the spell on Odette, and tricks him into thinking she is Odette so he declares his love to her instead.

And then the dramatic ending, where Odette throws herself into the lake because she'd rather die than live without him, and Prince Siegfried, so stricken with grief at having had accidently betrayed her, follows... there isn't a dry eye in the house. Their sacrifice destroys the sorcerer's spell and as the sun rises, Siegfried and Odette ascend into Heaven together, united in love for all eternity. All this in 3 short acts. The end.

It was a very fun girl's night out at the ballet, though I had to beg the other members in the group to stay for all 3 acts. They wanted to leave before the end! Imagine! But after they saw the finale, they were all clapping enthusiastically and saying, "yeah that grand finale was worth staying for."

Walking through the abandoned Covent Garden after the ballet towards the tube station I hummed in my head and couldn't resist doing a little pirouette here, a little jete there. I really think I was meant to be a ballerina.

Covent Garden was lit with a soft glow from the large, hanging chandeliers inside the covered market and the streets shiny from the rain that fallen while we were inside, which made it look even more charming than usual. I said "cheerio, mate" to it as I danced by, "It's been wonderful."

Thinking about the ballet on the tube ride home, I felt a bit like Odette myself. I know this sounds mental - but I am sort of mental, so stick with me here.

Like Odette, I am trapped in an unfair situation that I can't do anything about. I don't want to leave London, like Odette didn't want to be trapped as a swan. She decided there was no choice but to drown herself in a lake. I am a little less extreme in my sorrow and will probably not throw myself into the Thames, but I am extremely sad.

I'm down to 3 days, but if real life is anything like the ballet, then a lot can happen in three days.

And so I wonder how my own finale will play out. And if there will be encore.

My Last Weekend

I had the most wonderful, last weekend in London that was filled with a lot of smiles, a lot of laughs, and a lot of tears.

My third leaving-do took place Friday night with my group of friends here called "Team America."

The core of this group consists of me, my ex-pat Southern girlfriend from Tennessee, my ex-pat girl friend from Texas and her room mate (who after living with an American has practically become one himself), and my very English guyfriend who loves Americans so much that we let him in and pretend he is one.

The 5 of us met for a delicious leaving-do dinner at The Folly before heading unto the pub, where on the first friday of every month the whole of HTB gathers to drink together, as all members of the Anglican church should. It was a great coincedience that this fell on the night of my Team America leaving-do, and that The Folly was so conveniently located next door. 

At First Friday, we snagged a couple other honorary Americans to join us, and left from there for Ronnie Scott's  - a live jazz club in SoHo that reminded me of la caveau de la huchette in Paris. Dark lit, live band complete with a dreadlock-ridden electric violinist, people wearing proper ballroom dancing shoes. It was fabulous. 

And it was there I realized how cool my English guyfriends really are - because every single one of them took a bit of dancing classes and knows how to properly dance. "Just a bit of salsa class at UNI," "oh my mom taught me as a kid to ballroom dance," "I spent my gap year in Spain and picked it up" - they all have some story, but it ends with them being able to spin and dip you on the dance floor - which is awesome.

The manors on an English lad still amaze me. They open your doors, get your drinks, hail cabs for you on the road, offer you their "brolly" if it's raining, and always want to make sure you are having a good time when you're out with them, and when a dance floor is in sight, they extend their hand your way and politely say, "Anna - would you care to dance with me?" 

Who could say no to that kind of invitation?

So Team America salsa'd well into the night, and I picked up lots of new dance moves from my guy friends and I woke up with a lot of photos on my phone of me trying to salsa dance that no one can ever see but I will cherish forever.

Saturday morning I gathered the same crew to go to Maltby Street Market and have brunch at the Bea's of Bloomsbury pop-up diner. I'd been meaning to go since summer and it was now or never. We arrived to find the cutest little market you can imagine. A tiny alleyway strung with Union Jack bunting, fresh baked scones displayed on trays on old pianos, vendors wearing shabby top hats and white gloves, it was almost like we had time-warped on the tube.

The pop-up diner was off the main market in what looked like an airport hanger filled with picnic tables. It was a short and sweet American-style menu. French toast, pancakes, eggs benny, American bacon, bagels and cream cheese....heaven. I got the half and half, which was half an eggs benedict on a homemade english muffin and half an order of fluffy, puffy, blueberry pancakes, all for £6.50.

outside Bea's diner

Blueberry pancakes, American style, with a side of whip!

My friends, who were skeptical of going so far away for a breakfast - were going mental over how delicious everything was, and asking "how do you know about things like this - you're not from here!"

We left properly stuffed but that wasn't going to stop us from continuing onto Borough Market for a stroll around one of my favorite things in London. I had to say goodbye to Borough and get a final Monmouth latte. It turned out to be a beyond gorgeous day: sunny, clear blue skies, a slight delicious fall chill in the air, I felt like London was showing off.

I walked around grinning ear to ear, melting inside at every cute thing I saw, my heart-aching at the realization that this was my last Saturday afternoon strolling around London. I walked all the way from Borough down Southbank to Sloane Square, where I did my final walk down The King's Road - stopping of course for a bit of shopping along the way. My friend Christina had planned a leaving-do party for me, so I needed a leaving-do dress for the occasion.

Every time I go out in London I make 5 new friends by the end of the night. So it was quite fitting that my leaving-do party was filled with people I had known for months, and people I had known for about 48 hours alike. I only recently found out that a Watermelon Martini is the signature drink at bars in Chelsea. They actually take a whole watermelon and cut it up fresh in front of you when you order one. So that, of course, was my drink of choice for the evening, since I am a Chelsea girl. It was a fun crowd, and a fun party, that finally winded down at 4am.

But one of London's greatest downfalls is the lack of 24 diners where one can go at 4am after a night out when they are starving. So I was very excited to be invited to brunch at the Delaunay with my best friend Amy's family. The Delaunay is one of the smartest places in London, so I could not just turn up there hungover wearing lululemon gear like I would in New York. I arrived on 3 hours sleep, somehow looking put together and sat down to a Kir Royale and amazing, hot, french batard with salted butter.

Amy's grandparents are in town from France, and do not speak a word of English, so French was the language of choice at brunch. So there I sat, drinking more champagne cure the hangover, and trying to think and speak in French while devouring the amazing bread. It was fantastic.

Post-brunch Amy and I continued into Oxford Street for a bit of shopping, and I did a final trip into Liberty, and Fortnum & Masons, and the Burlington Arcade, growing more melancholy at every store.
Liberty already had their Christmas shop set up on the 4th floor, so I wandered through admiring the witty christmas cards and charming, holiday hampers, recalling so vividly doing my holiday shopping there last year and loving every minute of it. I wish I could do my holiday shopping at Liberty this year too.

Life here has really been so fantastic, and especially this last month when I've really embraced it for all that it is. It's given me the opportunity to travel to places I've always wanted to go, to meet interesting people from all over the world, to discover new things about myself, to show myself that I can make it on own, to perfect my English accent, to keep calm and carry on, but most importantly - to trust my gut. I knew deep down the second I got offered this job I had to take it. I knew deep down when I was unhappy here and wanted to leave that I had to grin and bear it, and I know now, with absolute certainty that I will look back at this year, always, as the best experience of my life. 

Best of the British

What was meant to be an average Thursday, where I went from work to the gym for Body Attack class, stopped at M&S on the way home to grab something healthy for dinner, and then watched recorded episodes of the Daily Show while I finished packing, turned to to be nothing of the sort.

I went from work to the gym, but when I got there I found that Body Attack was canceled. Arnaud, my extremely french and extremely fabulous teacher was in some of biking accident and was in the hospital! Sacre bleu! So I was going to turn my luon-clad butt around and head home - but then I realized that if Body Attack was not happening, the studio upstairs would be empty for the next hour....

I was extremely obsessed with Zumba prior to my move here. So obsessed that I knew the entire class by heart, and downloaded all the songs from my favorite teacher's playlist because listening to them when I wasn't in class made me happy. When I got here and could find a decent Zumba class, I realized I could actually do my old class from New York on my own - but the problem was finding a place to do it. The studios always had a class going on, and you really need a big, mirrored space in order to Zumba properly.

Well, I finally had one. So in I went, flipped to my Zumba playlist on my Ipod and went for it.

It was like riding a bike again. It all came back to me, instantly. Every shake, every shimmy, every twist. I was having a blast! I was in my own little world of latin music heaven. I was so far in my old little world, that I didn't realize that a new face to the regulars that are usually in class had entered and was standing at the door of the studio, watching me.

As I took out my earphones, she approached me asked - "this is Body Attack class, right?"

"No, no, class is canceled tonight," I replied, "I'm just doing a bit of Zumba...."

"Ohh, oh no. Well - can I take your Zumba class then?"

Now blushing red, I replied, "No, no - I'm not a trainer. I just like to dance. I'm just doing some Zumba for fun, on my own."

"Oh, right. Well, COULD you lead a Zumba class, since Body Attack is canceled? You seem to know what you're doing..."

At first I felt like shouting, "get out of here and let me Zumba in peace!!!" But then I thought, actually - I could teach a Zumba class! This could be fun! The problem was, I had no way of making my Ipod play to the whole room, so I had to turn her down. But she wasn't the only one who in the next ten minutes stuck their head through the window, starred at the class schedule on the wall outside looking confused, and walked away scratching their head as I continued to drop it low.

I gave myself quite a workout, and when I finished up I headed to M&S to get something for dinner, but nothing was appealing to me except the cinnamon apple pie ice cream pint, so I got that instead. I'd earned it.

I couldn't be bothered to wait until I got home, so I got a plastic spoon and started walking towards my flat while digging into my ice cream, not caring what passerbyers thought. As I approached my street, I noticed my flatmates sitting outside at our local pub, The Chelsea Ram, smoking their fags and drinking wine. So english.

They started shouting as I came into view,  "Go in and get a glass, join us!"
I sat straddled the empty bit of bench next to Suze and put down my half eaten pint of ice cream.

"ANNA!" she shouted. "You are so naughty! Were you walking home eating ice cream?"

I suppose this was a rather naughty thing to do, but I had been to the gym so they canceled each other out in my mind.

So with their wine, and my ice cream, we had ourselves a proper feast. And when the wine ran out, we got another bottle, and another, and we had such fun just sitting outside on our corner, talking about our little decrepit flat and all the hilarious and strange things that have occurred in the last year there, about London and New York, and how I've "become so honorary english" until suddenly it was 11 and the pub was closing so they kicked us out. But lucky we live "just a stone's throw away" as my flatmates' say.

When we got home, I did something that really look me to the next level in my quest to experience the english culture. I tried Marmite.

I'd seen my flatmates eating it on a regular basis, but had been afraid to go near the stuff. 

People who love marmite will defend it to the death, and Suze is one of them, stating there is nothing better than marmite on toast with a bit of butter. It's her go-to snack and she eats it all the time. 

So post-pub as she was preparing her slice, I opted to try one as well. 

It doesn't get much more British than a jar of yeast spread. Turns out, this gooey, sticky, stinky stuff is really healthy, and kind of delicious. I can't exactly describe the taste, aside from saying it's very salty and savory. Their slogan is, "you either love it or you hate it," and I didn't hate it! 

I think I will bring a jar back to New York with me, and from time to time I will have a spot of toast with a tad of but-tah and marmite, and eat it with my pinky up, thinking of Suze. 

Leaving-Do #2

Leaving-Do # 2  somehow turned into an early Birthday party - which was just fine with me.

I'm a part of a small group at church that meets every other week for a social event  - eating out, bowling, going to the pub  - but Monday I got an email about that week's activity which read, 

"Very sadly our wonderful Anna is soon heading back across the pond. As such, we thought we would send her off with as much style as we can muster. Therefore, on Tuesday we will be meeting at My Old Dutch, on the King's Road."

I teared up a bit... King's Roadd, carbs, oversized menu items - it was so sweet. 

My friends here really do know me well. So as a final hurrah, a dozen of us crammed into a huge table to indulge in some huge pancakes. 

I got the Greek. Haloumi, olives, feta, tomatoes.... opa!

Pancake envy....

I was getting very sad about everyone going on about my leaving, so when the waitor asked if we were celebrating anything - rather than pointing to me and saying "she's leaving for America," they pointed at me and said, "it's her birthday!" Then promptly began a shouting round of "Happy Birthday," which was the second time that I've been sung that song when it's not my birthday by this particular group. They really know the way to my heartstrings. 

It was a wonderful, delicious, leaving-do with some of my favorite people in London. And it was very fitting to have one of my leaving-dos on The King's Road, where I spend so much of my time. 

Monday night I was at a very small welcome-do for one of my best friends, Amy, who has returned from NYC, where we went to University together, to London, her hometown. We headed straight from the office to her dad's new restaurant Brasserie Zedel, a french brasserie in the middle of Picadilly Circus, that truly transports you to Paris in the 1940s when you walk through the doors. 

We started in the very chic, very art deco Bar Americian attached,  were we munched on olives, almonds, and I sipped one of their signature cocktails -  the Spritz Americian, before eventually sitting down the restaurant, where I fell victim to the amazing fresh baguette chunks and salted butter on the table. I had skipped lunch after being stuck in a 4+ hour meeting on site in this gi-normous house near Regents Park and was considering eating my skirt in the midst of it. 

I cannot explain the joy that suddenly having my best friend next to me all day in the office, and around for after-work fun has brought. I'm even happier here now than I was when I realized I was actually really happy here. And that's on top of how happy I just typically am on a standard day - which is happier than most. 

Damn my VISA expiring!! Why can't we all just live and work  in whatever countries we please without visas and rules and passports? It's a crap system we have in place. I haven't really come to terms with the fact that I'm leaving, for good. It feels more like I'm taking another holiday back to the US. I haven't sorted anything out yet: bank accounts, shipping boxes, stocking up on milk chocolate Hob Nobs to take back with me...

Tonight I'm heading to Lululemon in Chelsea tonight for a bit of Namaste before coming home and doing some serious packing! I move out of my flat this weekend and in with Amy for the remainder of my time here so I have everything shipped and taken care of, and my last week can be stress free. But that means a lot of stress tonight and tomorrow night before finally letting loose Friday evening. Leaving-do #3 commences promptly after work. 

Leaving Do #1

"Oxford is older, but Cambridge is better."

My flatmate is a Cambridge Alum, so her bias was understandable. I'd been telling her that I wanted to go, and she'd been telling me I had to go since I moved into my humble flat. But the weekends passed, and passed and I kept choosing European destinations over English ones. So when I woke up this past Sunday morning and saw the sun shining (ish) I knew it was my last chance. So I bolted to King Cross, and 50 minutes later I was finally in Cambridgeshire.

I arrived just in time to join the walking tour of King's College and Queens' College, led by Rosie - a sweet and rather hilarious middle-aged woman who grew up in the area, attended Cambridge in the 70s, and now gives guided tours on the wee-kends purely for her own enjoyment.

Her quick and witty banter made the tour a complete success. I am going to miss how effortlessly hilarious the English are. Their humor is so subtle that it seems almost unplanned or completely accidental. It is often that they are just talking and the mere way they string their words together ends up a strand of comedic genius. By simply describing the way the college square was planned so that the elder could see all the comings and goings of the boys at the school and catch them if they were up to no good. She said,

"If they were caught, they would of course be beaten. Everyone got beaten in those days. You actually had to prove you could beat a boy well and hard before you got your papers to become a teacher. So they'd pay someone 6 pence to be volunteer for the test beating prior to giving the teaching certificate."

Cambridge was founded in 1209. A few years after Oxford - so some (and by some I mean people who went to Cambridge) say all the things wrong with Oxford were sorted out with Cambridge.

And I believe it - it is truly beautiful place. I had the bright idea whilst visiting of applying there to get my masters degree in writing. Can you imagine being Cambridge educated? I feel a snuff above having just visited - I can't imagine what a Cambridge diploma would do to one's ego. You can potentially live in a dorm that Charles Darwin lived in for ape's sake!

Being a lover of architecture, and also of churches - stepping into the Chapel at King's College blew me away, in every way and beyond. It's one of the few examples of a fan vault in England. And since the chapel was finished by Henry VIII there are rare viewable "H&As" carved into the architrave from the time when Anne still had her head intact and was in the king's favor.

But Queens' College was almost more terrific - since there is a point where one can stand in the square and look at a building from the 15th, 16th, 17th, 18th, 19th, and 20th centuries simply by turning their head a few different directions. A true history of the college visible in one twirl.

A majority of Queens is properly medieval. The outside still gabled and looking from the time of Farthingales. The students put on a Shakespeare play every spring in the little square because it is such a perfect setting for such an event. Our guide said,

"It's just as nice as one can imagine - except of course if it's raining because then everyone gets wet. We don't let trifling things like rain stop us afterall." 

Nev-vah.

We had to be very quite in Queen's, since it's so small and most of the windows we were chattering on under house students.

"Heaven forebid there's some lad thinking up the next great idea of the universe - and he loses it because of my shouting," said Rosie.

My lovely tour took us past the punting - and I promptly regretted not going for a punt tour - since the lads navigating the things were shockingly attractive in their Jack Wills button downs and chino trouser shorts.

My flatmate had suggested a cozy lunch spot just down the road from King's called Fitzbillies. I went because of the name and the promise of a proper scone - but when I arrived I found everyone indulging in these instead.... 

That - is called a Chelsea Bun. 

The Chelsea bun is a type of currant bun that was first created in the 18th century at the Bun House in Chelsea. The bun is made of a rich yeast dough flavoured with lemon peel, cinnamon or a sweet spice mixture, spread with a mixture of currants, brown sugar, and butter, and after it is cooked -  glazed with cold water and sugar while still hot so the water evaporates and leaves a sticky sugar glaze, making the bun much sweeter.

And I think we all we all know that when it comes to things like doughy buns - the sweeter, the better. 

It may look like a cinnamon roll but it does not taste like one. It is chewier and raisin-y, and oh so finger-licky and sticky. How have I lived in Chelsea for nearly a year and am just now trying a Chelsea Bun? It's shameful, really. 

So in a sugared-bun-daze, I sat there sipping my Camomile tea and reading "A Casual Vacancy" - which yes, would have been a more appropriate read for an afternoon in Oxford, but I'd been already.

The scathing New York Time's review is a bit harsh if you ask me (100 pages in). While it's certainly no Harry Potter - I find her ability to tell a story unlike no one else present in this piece of very-adult fiction. I'm only bothered by what I feel is an attempt to break so far from the magical, fairy tale, kid friendly world of Hogwarts, that Pagford - the setting of her new novel - is a bit too ordinary, and the plot a bit too adult. This is definitely not a book for your little Gryffindor enthusiast. It's full of drugs, bad words, and inappropriate thoughts and actions for anyone aged below 18. 

But I'm routing for her - and the glass is always half-full for me. So on I read. 

Once back in London, I curled up on our worn, tufted red-leather couches in our common room with my four of my flatmates for what may be the last time, as we enjoyed a delicious take-away "flat-family" dinner together and watched Downton Abbey. It was my first leaving-do - and it nearly brought me to tears when one of them said, "I literally don't know what we're going to do....no one can replace you."

I didn't need my hot water bottle after that comment  because I was so warm and fuzzy inside. 

I love my little flat family. We're the perfect mix of personalities for a killer sitcom honestly.

There's Suze, with her wildly curly ginger hair. She is the responsible, motherly one of us all who literally lives in the cupboard under the stairs like Harry Potter. She sorts the bills and the arranges the cleaner and lets us in we've locked ourselves out. There's Marta, who talks like Penelope Cruise and yells in Spanish on Skype to her boyfriend Jose, in a way that I never know if it is a good or bad. She is also OCD with cleaning; the type who mops the floor prior to the cleaner coming later that day and puts stray dishes we've all left out in the washer once we've gone to bed. I shutter to think how the flat would look without her. Jacqueline is the wild one. The one who may or may not bring be sleeping in her bed that night, who throws her cigarette butts all over the garden and goes into my closet whilst I'm on holiday to borrow clothes without asking. But she's the best to have a laugh with and stay up late watching reruns of The OC with while we sob. And dear Lousie, who is so petit she looks like she could break. She's a civil servant who's shy, quiet, and sweeter than a Chelsea Bun. She makes soup from scratch and irons her little suits for work at Westminster every evening.

And then there's me: the token American with mermaid hair who after 1 year still does not know how to work the Skye box or lock the back door. The one who is always off to the gym, repeating everything they say with a crap British accent, and telling everyone about wonderful places in London and in England they've never bothered visiting. 

Yes, I suppose I will be hard to replace. But not as much as them. 

I grew up in a house as one of five. So it's no surprise I found such comfort in being one of five yet again in life. But my siblings all left home slowly over the years until I was the last one to remain - and this time it's the opposite. I'm the one leaving - and as the day draws nearer I'm finding it increasingly more difficult to do. 

 I know there will be several days where at 5pm New York time, while I'm eagerly waiting for the next thirty minutes to pass so I can leave the office that I'll stop and think of my little flat in Chelsea. 

And I'll wonder....its 10pm there. Is Louise sipping tea from her pale blue cup with the matching teapot next to her, half filled. Has Suze gotten Mori for dinner yet again tonight, and will Marta be putting away the soy sauce left on the coffee table; what weird English TV drama is softly playing in the background while Jacqueline recites her latest crazy story....

And I'll miss my little flat, and my little flat family, and my life in London - terribly.