Leaving My Mark on London

One day not long before leaving New York I drew a small "A" with a Sharpee on a bench in SoHo were I often took naps on my lunch hour. Vandalism is not typically an activity I practice, but sitting there in my last week I became a bit nostalgic and felt the need to leave a little piece of myself in New York. Though I harp on the States a lot, it's all in good fun. I love New York, and I do miss it.

Sort of.

I'm sure a similar desire will hit me come November when I begin packing up and prepare to leave London. Only I won't have to worry about finding a bench - because I made my mark on London this morning.

When I moved into my flat earlier this week, I decided my room should have a fresh coat of paint. I asked my landlord/flatmate and she said,

"Why yes what a good idea, I think a new lick of paint is a good idea!"

So I had the green light.

I figured it would be best to just hire someone to come paint it for me since I have never painted before, and I didn't want to waste a precious weekend with a paintbrush in my hand in lieu of a shopping bag. All I had to do was the buy the paint and the rest would be taken care of by Nigel, the handyman I found on Gumtree. I choose him from the list of handymen solely because he was called Nigel.

I went the night before our paint date a good hour away from my flat to 1 of 2 shops in London that sells paint. There is no Home Depot or Sherwin Williams on the corner here. Wandering down the aisles, lost in a sea of delicious color options - like clotted cream and raspberry jam, I eventually wandered into a young lad who worked there and so I played the role of damsel in distress in order to get his help lugging the paint cans around the store.

After a lot of chatter, he convinced me that I should paint the room myself.

While I knew instinctively this was probably going to end in disaster, I have always loved crafts and DIY projects, so the idea actually became very appealing and I canceled with Nigel.

Riding the bus home with my paint cans and roller, I had visions of myself merrily rolling away while listening to the Beatles, a handkerchief tied around my hair and small flecks of paint splattered on my old, pink Nikes. But most importantly, the pride I would feel when my clotted cream walls were done! I thought, if the lad at the paint store believes I can do it, so should I!

So I called my dad, who has painted a lot of walls in his lifetime to ask for some tips. Upon learning about my diabolical plan, he promptly said, "You should NOT be painting."

He went on to scare the pajama pants off me, describing all prep, steps, and precautions to take when painting and saying it would take at least a day or two to get the job done!

I hadn't counted on that. I thought I could just dip and roll my way through the walls and an hour or two later it would all be perfect. So the more I thought about it, I decided I didn't need clotted cream walls afterall, and that I was going to be frugal and return all the supplies and use the money to buy cute wall art or pillows instead.

So I woke up early this morning, and gathered all the paint, brushes, and dish into the bag, and with the roller as my walking stick, departed for the long journey ahead. I wanted to get the return done quickly so I could make it to another Body Attack class at the gym, so I was briskly walking towards the bus stop when I saw the bus approaching on the other side of the road. I knew there was only one thing to do to make that bus, so I started to run.

The bag was heavy and the roller kept banging into my leg, but I ran on, determined to save time by catching this bus - and save money by returning this paint. The bus driver saw me running and pulled over to the stop to wait, kind lad that he was. I was only fifty feet away, mid-sprint when my bag ripped, the paint can crashed to the floor, and paint flew everywhere.

All over the street, all over the sidewalk, all over me.

I froze. The bus driver froze. Everyone on the street froze.

What were once new running shoes were now buried under a thick mound of clotted cream.

My beautiful, black, designer coat from Paris had clumpy white polka dots down the left side, my lululemon clad legs matched.

Paint in my hair, on my face, paint all over.

Paint dribbled down the street as I ran to grab the bucket, covering my hands as well.

I didn't know what to do. I began to panic internally and think of my options, but only 1 thing came to mind:

"Keep calm and carry on."

Thankfully I was a two minute walk from my flat, so I scooped up the lid, gathered up the other cans and dish, grabbed the roller and slowly starting to walk home, dripping in paint.

When I got home, I went right for the shower. I climbed in, fully clothed and still holding everything.

If only I had just stuck with Nigel.

I was able to get most the paint off my shoes, clothes, and coat, and clean up the splotches on the floor that dripped when I came in.

However, there is one area I could not attend to. A bit later, when I was cleaned up and en route to the gym I retraced my path to the scene of the incident. There in clotted cream paint was a trail of my footprints down the road. Assurance that London will forever be my stomping grounds. Literally.