On being Carrie Bradshaw.

So, in my last blog I mentioned how I was going to stop caring so much – to put it politely.

I’d say it’s going quite well actually. So far I haven’t signed up for anything I didn’t want to do, other than paying back underpaid tax to Revenue and Customs (which I was assured that I was under legal obligation to do and therefore it was not acceptable to use my new “not giving a F***” policy). 

I’ve also been re-watching Sex and the City, as you do. I know that the character of Carrie Bradshaw is fraught with problems and character flaws, but as I watched more, I couldn’t help but wonder…aren’t we all? 

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Just call me Carrie…

Do you see what I did there? See, just like her. If you’ve not watched the series, Carrie is a writer who sits in her cool apartment whilst she types away and somehow shoehorns that phrase into each and every one of her monthly newspaper columns which miraculously allows her to buy unnecessary numbers of $400 shoes.  She also has fabulous hair, a questionable wardrobe, a select number of friends and a really great lifestyle 

I want all of those things quite frankly. In my bid to house hunt I wanted to move to an area which allowed me to run down my fashionable stone front door steps and into the nearest bar, or brunch location, immerse myself in the hubbub of everyday life, surrounded by trendy strangers going about their business. 

And then I remembered, I don’t live in NYC. I don’t even live in London anymore.

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God I miss London, I miss the hustle and bustle, I miss that skyline, I even miss the tube – I know. I just miss the rush of it all. Don’t get me wrong, a field is nice to look at – but can I get a drink in a field? Well unless I’m at a festival or there’s an alcoholic farmer knocking about, probably not. Living in the suburbs is fine, if you like fields or driving or whatever. 

My dad used to talk to me about how he was so bored living here, there was nothing to do – it was all so far away. His hustle bustle city was Napoli – where you stepped out your door onto cobble streets, narrowly avoided getting robbed by some nutter on a Vespa, and trotted off to get some gelato – stopping to talk to a few people on the way. I never really got what he meant? There was loads to do in England, it wasn’t that different. But living in the suburbs again really is different. It is pretty dull. Yet another thing my dad was right about.

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So my plan, was not to move back to London (because I can’t really afford it anymore and since I spent 6 years talking about coming home, I should probably stay now) but instead, to be a bit more “Carrie Bradshaw”. I could easily put together a questionable wardrobe, though probably couldn’t commit to wearing heels everyday because, who can be bothered honestly?  But I was going to find a slice of hubbub in my corner of Yorkshire.

And then I went back to my house after it was painted and I fell in love with it all over again. And then I went to my pal’s house and cried for about 6 hours.  I was so torn between trying to find my London life again and a house that I loved – and because I’d already made the decision to move out I felt like I couldn’t go back on it. But I could, couldn’t I?

And thats what I did.

I’ve also just noticed how many sentences I start with “And” – I’m sorry.

Anyway, once that decision had been made – or revoked, whichever way you want to look at it, I felt this weight lift. I started getting excited looking at lamps again, and paint colours and bed linen. Whoooo! I made a second decision here. I could be Carrie Bradshaw in a different way.  I could be the kind of Carrie my friend Madde is. 

She has good friends, she travels, she goes out to eat, she wears good clothes, she has a great apartment, she’s fiercely independent. And that’s pretty much the way I want it to be except I don’t need to have a great brunch place next to my front garden. If I live here, I can actually save up and then  I could go for great brunch on a long weekend in Spain. I could collect items for my wardrobe in Paris. I could take the dog for a walk in the Lake district. I’m not trapped here – I just have to make myself get out and staying in this house will allow me to do that. Rather than buying a stupid expensive house and spending my money on a mortgage, I can spend my money on margaritas.

When I was looking at houses, it was important to me there was some scope for having an open plan living space, and a garden, since I never got one in London, and a spare room to put all my paper and pens. But here I was, living somewhere that I already had all those things. So I made like Madde and went to Ikea and did some furnishing, and now I have somewhere great to live. I’ll show you my new layout next time.

Of course, there are lots of Carrie like things that I already do – I like to write and I’m a bit mental and neurotic. Although, everyone is all like “Oh Carrie, why would you stand in the street and make Big tell you that ‘You’re the one’ and then break up with him when he can’t tell you?”

Well, I say, good for you Carrie. Why should you put up with someone that isn’t sure about you? However, you probably shouldn’t have thrown your Macdonalds at him when he said he might be moving to Paris without you. That was a waste of good chips.

 

Until next time

xx

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