the french are weird example #264.

#264: Lemming, a French domestic psychological thriller. In standard French movie form, it leaves you giggling with disbelief and your mouth agape in the formation of 'whaaat?' throughout the movie. Continues in French Domestic Thriller Movie fashion by including build-ups of unbearable intensity leading to...absolutely nothing at all. But, despite its interesting and slightly uncomfortable sexuality and non-linear plot, you can't say that it didn't absolutely floor you and keep your interest the whole way through. I'd recommend it. See also: Garnett, Ben, the loser I saw this with. (He pronounces oregano like OR-e-gan-o.)

I've discovered, or re-discovered, London's movie scene: this city really has everything; it has loads of interesting cinemas that have specially themed weeekends and foreign films that show almost all the time. Since returning from Japan, I've seen three movies. Sure, it's put me back 20 quid, but the awakening has been quite refreshing. Unfortunately, lots of these movies are available on, oh, I don't know, Netflix, so the desire to just write down titles and gobble them all up within the month I'm at home is very tempting.

Beyond the French and the Movies:
It has occurred to me, before today, and even before Easter holiday, that I have become bitchy with London the way somebody can be always complaining about something they love dearly. For example, your significant other, "Oh man, he always leaves the toilet seat up and he makes the strangest noises when he chews!" Or, "That stupid stupid cat always wants to go outside, but he always ends up eating some strange plant from the garden and throwing up on the new wood floors! I could wring that little bastard's neck!" Or, "What the hell are Bank Holidays and why does everything cease to function during these holiday weekends? Why can't I get anywhere on the Tube? Why is this city so ridiculously lame?"

That last example is based on reality or, more specifically, a censored version of what went through my head today when it took an hour to get to Great Portland St. (usually a half hour ride). To make matters worse, the reason for travel - to watch the Man Utd vs. Chelsea game - ended in defeat for United and the Chelsea bastards receiving their Premiership trophy and medals at their home turf just minutes away from me at Stamford Bridge and having to watch Wayne Rooney, an ugly bugger but crucial to team England in the World Cup, get a fractured metatarsal. Yes, metatarsal. Like those things in a dinosaur's foot.

But I do feel like I belong to the city. Here are several instances that you can use to determine whether or not you actually belong to a city/neighborhood:
1. You recognize the bums that only sit on New Cross Road on Friday and Saturday nights, when The Venue nightclub is overflowing with rich 20somethings who can afford to pay 12quid cover for some shit cover band. By 4am, I'm woken up by the drunk, slightly less rich 20somethings out on the street waiting for the nightbus.
2. When you see the Long Wait crosswalk turn green while you're still standing at the street before. You know the green man on the Long Wait crosswalk only lasts about 8 seconds (you've counted) and you know you won't get there by then and you curse inwardly. You can see everybody else who doesn't make it curse inwardly too because the average wait is 2minutes (approximately, you haven't counted.) London has a horrible system of crosswalks, in that you have to usually cross two different directions to get across one street.
3. You recognize the traffic patterns of the Tube trains. If you see the train at New Cross station chugging down the tracks, you can make it to New Cross Gate if you walk there straight away to catch a train. If you see people exiting on the bridge over the tracks, you better run to catch the train - it only waits for 4 minutes - and the previous passengers have already rambled off and made their way out. If you see a crowd of people still on the platform, you can slow down because you probably still have the whole 4 minutes left.
4. You are ready with 2.30 in exact change in your pocket to buy lunch from Iceland down the street: 1 frozen pizza and 2 Diet Cokes (it's a deal; ideally you drink one now and save one for tomorrow, but you usually only end up saving it until later that day.)