How to Find Friends in London

For Real Londoners

Newspapers aren't the hive of activity that superman movies would lead you to believe. At any rate, The Tides wasn't, it was located on the fourth floor of an office block off of canal street. It had a permanent cast of mustard yellow that seemed to coat every available surface, and smelt of second hand smoke. The decor was comprised of peeling chipboard and Art Deco light fixtures. It was like walking back in time to my parents childhood, a time capsule of the 1970s. The decrepit desks bore more dusty typewriters and a few ancient computers, whose towers winked feebly at me. Begging for use or to be put out of their poorly wired misery.

In a glass office that dominated one end of the floor, sat a man busy brushing crumbs out of his moustache, as he peered thoughtfully at the computer screen. I brusquely walked forward, which caught his attention rather immediately. I was not a brusque person. He looked up, the red scaly skin of his stout neck flaking off and settling on the pilled navy and red carpet.

"Ursula, I don't 'ave an appointment for you today?" He posed the question at Avril, his rotund secretary.

"Nope." she agreed, through a mouthful of falafel.

"Tim." I implored, "I just think you should have a look-"

Tim cut me off with an impatient hand,

"For fucks sake, hand it over then."

I handed him the creased paper. Tim did not believe in emails. Everything still had to be printed out, typewriters were preferred. Most of us worked from home, typing away vigorously on our laptops and shooting off emails to assistant editors.

Tim, we all suspected, had no fucking clue as to the inner machinations (or any machination at that) of his own newspaper company. However, he did retain one right. He insisted on looking over new ideas, and despite his general (slightly drunken) malaise, we all did rate him for one thing: he had a knack for seeing brilliant potential. All the assistant editors and head writers were handpicked by him. And those journos and editors had then progressed onto bigger and better things (like Angelica, who now had her own bloody column in the Guardian) (or fucking Raj who was now editing the BBC news website) (Raj was a bitch).

"Shit."

My fantasies of salaried pay burst brilliantly in a spray of dead skin and bad breath.

"Sorry?" (London speak for "excuse me, but what the fuck?").

"Shit! You wrote a guide to london, yeah?"

"Well, yes. But it's more than that. It's London for you know real-"

"It's shit. Polarizing in the worst way possible, what's your target audience? Bellends? Well congratulations."

He scratched vigorously at his neck, pieces of white skin dislogding themselves and glinting in the solitary ray of sunlight that permeated an office that smelt of old milk and moustache wax.

I stood for a moment, holding the article that had been unceremoniously thrust back into my hands. Tim was staring at his computer screen, I could discern from his eyeglasses that he was looking up dogging opportunities on Gumtree.

"Thanks, sir." I mumbled. He grunted.

I walked away, brusquely. Hating myself.

"Oy, Ursula."

"Yes, boss?"

"What happened to that Oliver bloke that stuck 'round you like a bad smell."

"I don't really remember him." Brow furrowed and sweat working its way into my eye, trying to remember.

"Pity. He was a good story teller."

I didn't know how Oliver was, but I hated him. I smiled tersely, my long fingers finding their usual pace amongst the papers that comprised of my shit guide to London. Steadily unknitting my toiled over words. Tiny specks of paper, a reduction of ideas, sprinkling the linoleum.

I turned back round, the sound of Tim's neck scratching following me through to the door.