It’s me again!
If there is one thing to know about me, I am always dramatic. Both in the good and bad sense. When a small good thing happens, I’ll go through great lengths to celebrate it. When the most minor of inconveniences happens, I wail like the overly emotional woman that I am.
In the week that I took off for a bit of a break from writing, two things happened to me which I feel compelled to share. Both of them completely different situations, but I remain completely and utterly dramatic nonetheless in both scenarios. Please enjoy.
The Staircase Smokers
This story involves drugs, a staircase and dark parking lot.
I took a few days off from work in mid-October for some needed R&R. On one of the days, I took my mum out shopping with me, a cheeky girls trip to Kingston for some retail therapy. The day was great, nothing could dampen the mood.
Armed with shopping bags and our oversized coats, we marched our way back to the parking lot, ready to head home for an evening of movies and deliveroo orders. The carpark is located on the edge of the town; it’s a large concrete structure that in all honestly, a bit skeptical with flickering lights, dark corners, and the smell of all kinds of revolting things. But it’s London and finding a parking spot is kind of like needle in a haystack. It’s a sort of take what you get situation.
The elevator reeks of urine, so we avoid using it. It’s also incredible shaky and I preferred not to plummet to my death surrounded by the smell of pee soaked rubber and caked cigarettes. So, we hiked up the equally disgusting stairs, I swung open the lobby door and on the floor were two homeless men, a doberman with a studded collar, and the biggest stench of weed. There’s puffs of smoke wafting in the air; it’s a hot box. I wouldn’t be surprised if Snoop Dog appeared in the cloud of smoke. One man is leaning against the wall, eyes glossed over, the other is lying across the floor in a paint-me-like-one-of-your-french-girls position. The dog sat panting with a happy grin on his face.
Now, I’m not ignorant to the drug crowd. I’ve purchased weed as gift for an ex-boyfriend when I didn’t know what else to get him, I’ve hung out with casual smokers, I’ve had friends do coke while I chilled with them. I’ve dabbled in the occasional recreational drug myself; it doesn’t bother me. However, the combination between the big dog, the two dodgy looking men and the overwhelming smoke just sent me into a blind panic. I mean, my mother was with me. My small, Asian mum who has never been exposed to drugs, who once innocently asked my ex-boyfriend about weed was like, needed to be protected at all cost.
I gasp dramatically, already feeling my body go cold and the adrenaline starting to build. I yanked the door shut. I turned to my mum, who has just come to the top of the stairs and say, “There’s people doing drugs.”
My mum looked at me and went, “Ha? What?”
Nothing seems to surprise her nowadays.
I moved towards her, grabbed her bags from her and said, “Turn around, go down go down. There’s drugs, move quickly.”
Her mouth shaped into an “O” and she quickly went down the stairs. I said we should take the elevator. It was take the elevator or possibly be robbed and shanked. I could feel the blood pumping in my ears, I was getting more sweaty and my selected foot ware of the day, a pair of cute heeled boots, weren’t designed for running for your life.
The elevator arrived, we shoved ourselves in holding our breath and press the level two button. I suggested we go one level up and walk down the ramp. Mum agreed.
The plan did not go accordingly. I distinctly pressed the grimey level 2 button, but for whatever reason, it opened right in front of the homeless men. Both of whom waved at us, one of them grunting a hello. I wasn’t prepared. I let out a big gasp and slammed my hand on the close button loudly. “Fuck sake,” I said. The elevator shook unnecessarily as it arrived on level 2; the doors opened slowly and with a metal scrapping sound. Awful. The ramp was one of those spiral ones, something we can’t walk down unless we’re prepared to get run over. By this point, the sun is setting, it’s getting darker in the carpark, lights are flickering, I’m going into a mix between fight or flight. I call it fright. I’ve spooked myself out. Every corner, I’m convinced there is someone lurking in the shadows ready to grab us.
I marched us towards the other end of the carpark, thinking out loud “there must be another set of stairs otherwise this is a major fire hazard, I’m going to file a fucking complaint.”
I’m always threatening to file a complaint when I panic. I never do, but it reassures me that I could take action about it.
In the distance a halo of light appears, the holy grail, our saviour, the alternative staircase appears. I threw my body into the door. It’s a pull, not a push. I’m sure I’ve bruised my shoulder. For a brief moment I imagined that when I opened it the homeless men are there again. They’re not, thank god. We quickly rushed down the stairs. I spot my car, throw everything in it in one go, clothes tumbled out of the bag, and buckled up. And locked my door.
Being a typical germaphobe, I excessively sanitised my hands until my eyes began to water from the smell of the alcohol.
My mum looked at me and goes, “So that’s what weed smells like. It’s so smelly.”
The Hunt is Over
If you’ve been with me for a bit, you’ll know that I’m obsessed with pleated pants. I wrote about it here and explained why I wanted them and why it was such a nightmare for me to find them.
Well ladies and gentleman, fellow substakkers and vergies (that’s what I’m calling you guys - too close to orgies though, isn’t it?), I have found the pants.
In a corner of H&M, behind racks of autumn and winter jackets, nestled behind sets of polyester and wool trousers, there the pants were. Found practically by accident. A casual stroll around the shop in another direction and I would have never found them.
Skimming through sizes, I found mine. The last one of its kind. Possibly too long in length, but I needed to try it on to really know. I hiss whispered across the store to my mum who was casually browsing: “Look, Mum. Mum. Mum.”
She was either deaf or not paying attention to me, so the child I am, I sighed and waved my arms around to catch her attention. She glanced up and said, “Those are nice.”
“Mum. These are the pants I’ve been looking for. What do you think?” Seeking my mother’s approval means everything to me. Unhealthy? Probably.
“They’re nice, try them on.” The gold star of approval.
I carried the pants around with me for dear life, like a child holding onto a sacred blanket. I refused to let them go; I was prepared to fight anyone who dared touch them. I hissed at a woman who came too close for comfort. At one point, I went to try on a pair of boots and I left the pants hanging on side rack. Immediately, I sprinted across the store to retrieve them. If this was a school hallway, I’d be told off for running.
In the changing room, I slipped one leg in after the other. Usually I’ll know by the first leg insert if they’ll fit. They were roomy. Buttoned neatly at the waist, not too tight that I wouldn’t be able to eat, not too loose that I would require a belt. They were slightly too long, but nothing that a visit to a local tailor wouldn’t fix.
All the wishes that I spent on dropped eye-lashes had come true. I can’t wait to show them off. When someone asks me what I’ve been up to, I’ll jump on the table and flash my trousers at them and go, “These beauties. I’ve searched high and low and by gods graces, I have found them. Feel them.
Have you ever found something that you’ve been looking for a long time for? Comment below!
Five things I read this week:
Holly Whitaker - “Dear Writer: Advice on writing like it matters”
Farrah Storr’s - “The necessity of the mid-life transition”
Maya Kosoff’s - “mouse house week 2: 2 mice 2 furious”
Maybe Baby’s - “Re: Taylor Swift”
Bon Appetit’s - “Julia Knows Best: What I Learned From Cooking Julia Child's Recipes For a Year”
Ahhh I’m so excited you found The Pants! I just bought a pair of black loafers after being incredibly picky for years about which ones to get and I’m really happy with them. Never mind that they’re the exact same pair of loafers that I have in another color 🤦🏻♀️
Also your parking garage story made me laugh! I guess it’s different stumbling across drugs in that context, with your mom, versus say with friends at a house party or something. I also love how casual your mom was about it all at the end 😂