Adapting.

Two years ago, my mother put me on the train at Liverpool Lime Street with my suitcase, handbag and corned beef sandwiches to enjoy on the journey. Having grown tired of the same surroundings all the time, I decided that London was the place to be. What a shock to the system! Gone were the girls sporting rollers in their hair around town, making a point of letting you know they were going out that night. Sunbeds and Shellac on every street corner were no more. Instead I was faced with the more natural look. I couldn't cope. Clinging on to my St Moriz and eyebrow pencil for dear life, I realised I would have to tone it down. I replaced the platforms for a pair of flats and after a temporary nervous breakdown I eventually got used to it. See, even if a Scouse girl pops to the shop for a pint of milk, they have to put on at least 2 layers of foundation an a set of lashes, because "ya never know do ya?" For the first 2 weeks I was getting stared at like something out of Ripleys. Even more so when I opened my mouth. "What part of Scotland are you from?" I was mortified. Not that there's anything wrong with being Scottish, I mean I love Lulu and I've got ginger hair. But my accent is part of me. Liverpool is part of me. London girls are a lot more chilled out. They prefer looking natural. I tried it I really did. I tried to fit in. I wore less blusher, lashed my hair in a pony instead of the good old curly blow dry...but I'm not a London girl am I? I'm a Scouse Prinny. I screech instead of speaking. My reaction to bad news is 10 times more dramatic than an Accountant living in Clapham. Some girls are intrigued. Some are fascinated. Some are just disgusted. But when I open my mouth in the Capital, there's never a dull moment. Needless to say, without even trying, no matter where I go I end up making a statement. From the way I hold my handbag to the way I walk, I've got Liverpool written all over me. And I don't mean I'm wearing a fake LFC kit from a stall on Shaftsbury Avenue. But I can't shake it. It's something that can't be changed. I do love the days were I can't be bothered and I can just get the tube in a hoodie, without it having to match my glittery, jewel embellished tracksuit bottoms and colour co-ordinated trainers. I love the freedom of being bronzer free for a couple of days without being stared at. And most of all I love not being judged on the boldness of my eyebrows. 

Last year I was introduced to the London House Party. Replace the Vodka with Red Wine, the Swedish House Mafia with Mumford & Sons, and swap the Sausage Rolls for Olive Bread and Truffle Oil. I had my best Lipsy dress on, I'd had my hair in pin curls all day and when I got there I realised this was a very different world. We sat in a circle and discussed various pop ups in Shoreditch, where the best place is to "grab a coffee" and who are favourite poets were. My Roger McGough comment was greeted by mixed reviews. After realising where I was from, I got the usual Beatles chit chat, the plea of getting me to say the words "chicken" and "Purple", and to my surprise, I was welcomed into this world of something I'd only ever seen on BBC Four, I was soon making girl friends. Swapping tan tips for Salmon Dill recipes (I just pretended I knew what that was) I guess I can be a mixture of Liverpool and London after all. I recently went back to Liverpool, where my accent was mocked. "You sound like a Londoner now!" I sound exactly the same by the way. 

There's just one issue. London men. They just don't know how to handle a Scouse girl. We are one of a kind. Known for being self confessed "Cranks", many a man in the Capital are flummoxed when faced with the temper and cold shoulder from that of a girl from Liverpool. Men in my home city are used to it. Their mums are "Cranks". And nobody messes with a Scouse mum. All they need to do is take us shopping for a new bag, buy us some perfume and all is forgotten. But London men try and talk through the issue of which they have somehow created, leaving them in the doghouse. Usually it will be something they did 2 months ago and it's just sprung to mind so now you're obviously livid at him. But the London man doesn't know this. He's frantically going through his every move for the past week, apologising for working late, neglecting you for his bi weekly yoga sessions. He thinks flowers are the answer. Can I eat flowers? Can I wear flowers? No babe. Get your Oyster, we're off to Westfield. Not that I'm THAT shallow.... A galaxy and a cuddle will do...