When I got started with the UrbanVox brand of blogging (go on… laugh if you want…it is still the best description!!) I had taken the decision of blogging about all things urban… I had decided that THAT would be my thing… and for a time that is exactly what I did… For a While I even covered the Latin Party Circuit and was actually paid to be there and take pretty pictures of pretty people and blog about it. It was fun…

Ah… the good old times… I kinda like to remember when I first moved into London… Which is what my first guest-blogger in quite a while will be talking about today… Well… Ranting about… but is a good rant (made me laugh loads… hehehe)…

Ladies and Gents, I leave you in the capable hands of the author of The Nanny’s Notebook  Nanny Ump herself …

Enjoy!!

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*BANG* Thats my alarm clock, okay, it’s not really, it’s a gun. But it may as well be. I open my eyes as the sun glares at me. To see me dad, hanging half out the window, shooting the rabbits in the front field. “ughhhhh get out!!” Shush, you’ll scare them away. *BANG*.

Now theres a different alarm clock. The crying baby, screaing for attention at 5.30am. It’s dark outside, and the sirens of the police never stop. It’s continuous, like the carousel at the fairground. And the planes slows move over the house, a long droaning noise.

From the quiet farming countryside, to the hustle and bustle of the big smoke.

It’s strange. Like those who have straight hair want it curly, and those with curly hair want it straight. In the country, everyone wants to be in the city, and in the city, everyone will say they want to be in the country? So why don’t they? Because they know they wouldn’t like it. It’s one of those things when ‘It’s just nice to visit’. To see how the other half live.

And as a young one, with no actual address as such. I get to see how everyone lives. I have the farm in Lincolnshire in a little village. Out in the sticks. It’s completely boring until you are 17 and old enough to drive. And then when you’re 18, great, the age for drinking, you can’t. Because you have to drive to get anywhere.

So now I’m here in Battersea, London. Just over the bridge from Chelsea, a bus ride away from Victoria, and right next to Clapham Junction, the busiest train station.

Obviously, I am going to make the most of this! I went out every weekend to the West End. Mayfair, Oxford Circus, Piccadily. All the ‘it’ clubs. I now had a new independence I didn’t have in the country. The independence of losing a shoe, and being able to get it back with the added bonus of tapas and wine. Yes, that’s right, I drank wine. And also had the added bonus of the hangover the next morning.

It’s not only the change of scenery, it’s the change of class. For a night out in the country, the choices are Cleethorpes, Grimsby or Lincoln. You don’t just go to one club, you go to many and move around. None are exactly special, but the alchopops are cheap enough.

In the city, well, the west end at least. You will not catch anyone with alchopops. Wine, beer or spirits. The thing that shocked me most, despite the men having to pay £20 entrance fee whilst women get in free, you have to pay for tables. You actually have to pay to sit down. And I’m not talking a few quid either. Upwards of £500 minimum. MINIMUM. Who would pay that much just to sit down?! It’s crazy. I wold love to try that in the country, you would just get laughed at. But here, money is everything. You have a table, and everyone instantly knows you have wealth. Did I mention the cheapest drinks are also £10.50? For one drink?! That’s more than I earn an hour!

Clubs here, are also prejudice in every way possible. Because they can be. And I have no idea how. If your shoes aren’t right, you won’t get in. If they don’t like your face, you won’t get in. You can be the skinniest girl, in heels and skimpiest dress, but if they take a dislike to you, believe me, you don’t stand a chance. It’s nothing to do with the rules, it’s completely how the bouncers feel. The clubs are all 21+  but this means nothing, as I can get in no questions asked. And sometimes, I don’t even get I.D’d. Unlike the country, when you don’t only have to show I.D, you then have to tell them your name, address, date of birth and sometimes even star sign. Seriously, when you’ve had a few that’s a lot harder than you think!

Now it’s getting cold out, and my clubbing has become more of a chore, I’m going to have to explore through the bit smoke and see what else out here is different, and ten times as expensive. Good bye saving account.

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Hope you enjoyed her guest post and I am sure that is just the beginning of the adventures of our favourite farm girl in the big city.

You can check some more of her shenanigans and some GREAT Nanny advice at  The Nanny’s Notebook ;-)