Nine Years!!

Yesterday it has been nine years since I moved to London. Nine years since I boarded that plane to move into a room above a Hoover shop in Acton with my friend. Said friend left again after six weeks. I was pretty much on my own. Quite scary when you think about it. From a village with 600 people, a bakery, two restaurants and a bank straight into the big smoke. But, I’m tougher than I look and managed to make some friends, found a flatshare and a job. The only thing that was a bit iffy was going to gigs on my own. But I soon realized it was always the same people at these gigs, so I got talking to them. I also dragged Tom along, whom I had bonded with over Chicks on the Bis message board. Bless. Then I met Andy, because we were both trying to peddle our fanzines at a Brassy gig.

Has London been good to me? Overall, I suppose it has. If you discount the crime rate (there is no crime where I come from. Seriously, my parents habitually leave both the car and the front door unlocked overnight), the extortionate rents and the fact everywhere takes about an hour to travel to. I only meant to stay for six months. My friend Connie drove me to the airport. She had made me a mixtape (note: Connie was into completely different music, on the tape I found Run DMC, Roxette and a few other supposed gems) and was holding back the tears (Connie doesn’t do crying in public). So was I, because deep down I knew that this wasn’t just for six months and that my life would never be the same again, that I would only see my friends back home sporadically at Christmas and that people would move on. I felt quite bad for leaving Connie behind. We’d been friends for years and years and she didn’t really have many other friends. Which is why she lived on my sofa for quite some time, after her parents turfed her out for being gay. And now I was just going to leave her there.

In those nine years I have learned quite a lot about the world. And me. I learned that I hate baked beans, that flats never have their actual size advertised, that estate agents are evil liars, that the market research crowd is not for me, that terrorism appears to exist, that I can hold down a job and that ‘see you soon’ does not necessarily mean you will see these people again in a hurry. And I learned how to speak English. When I arrived in London, my English was based around what I had learned at school and on MTV. This wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I realised that having an obvious German accent locks a lot of doors, people make assumptions and, let’s face it, Germans are not the most popular of tribes. It is all a bit schizophrenic though, because at the end of the day I am from that village. I tell people I am from Munich. But in fact I am from this village that’s 15 minutes drives from this town that is another hour’s drive away from Munich. I’m not really from Munich at all.

When I go home at Christmas, I realise it’s not quite home any more. I have spent all of my adult life in London and the experience has been more useful than all of the time I spent at school combined. Because school is useless and doesn’t teach you anything useful. All it taught me is a healthy hatred of authority.

I have moved house more times than I care to remember. I have had my heart broken 1.5 times (and nearly broken another 1.5 times). The first and last time I actually pulled at a gig was in London (a mindboggling experience at a Gel gig at the Astoria). And I acquired a horse in London. Who would have thought it? I have met lots of other Germans but soon realised that the only thing I had in common with most of them was a shared country of origin. Not very useful.

I have lived with flatmates from hell. Like the Spanish guy who left his yellowing Y-fronts out to dry all over the flat. Or the quiet Japanese guy who made me tell people trying to visit him he wasn’t in and later informed me they were just ‘fuck friends’ and he had no desire to see them again and could I please tell them to go away?

Then there was uni. Where I made all of two friends. One is now back in Finland, the other I am no longer on speaking terms with.

Worryingly, I don’t think I have grown up much at all over the past nine years. I still have the same posters in my room, sleep in the same dubious duvet covers (I suppose when you’re 28, a Thundercats duvet may not be such a great idea, ahem), still collect He-Man toys and obsess over music. I think the only thing that has changed is that I am now more wary of people. People sometimes say one thing and mean another. It took me years to work that one out, and I still don’t understand the logic behind this. Why don’t people just say what they want to say? Or people who say they will do something and then they don’t? Why bother? This has happened so many times now that every time I encounter new people I view them with a healthy amount of suspicion. I wasn’t like that nine years ago and merrily took everything and everyone at face value. Only to find myself disappointed with the world time and time again. I suppose this could be misconstrued as having turned bitter and cynical. Hm. No, I think I’ve always been cynical.

But, on the whole, I still like it in London. It’s way better than back home and well worth the sacrifices.