The Soho Breakfast Club, London!

I could have kissed the ground the moment I arrived at Heathrow after 25 hours in transit. Instead I put all the trauma (accidentally walking into the mens toilets in Dubai) and turbulence behind me and hailed a black cab. 

"Soho, Please." I said rustling around in my bag for my mobile phone which lay dormant in a crevice between some nasal spray and a half eaten pack of gum. 

Connecting to international roaming after a day of being offline was pure bliss. Determined not to get distracted by social media, I quickly scrolled through my inbox of unread messages. I felt a small wave of relief when I saw two messages from Hannah, one of my university friends that I would be staying with in London. The truth is that going to Europe for the entirety of my annual leave was a highly impromptu act, yet after all the mayhem with the Dirthouse I felt relived to flee Sydney even just for a little bit. Let's go to Paris for 3 weeks? Why the hell not!

Hannah's first message followed by the second:

Welcome to London lady! Meet me at the Breakfast Club - 33 D’Arblay Street x

Ha! Not a...

There's good coffee and bacon...

That's it i'm in.  

After dropping my bags off at the apartment and changing into something comfortable yet commendable I headed in the direction of D'Arblay Street.

Despite being the centre of London, Soho on a Sunday morning was quiet, lazy and not at all what I remembered from my last trip. I suppose last time I was in the UK I hadn't strayed far off the tourist track which explained the heaving crowds. 

I strolled down several streets, clutching google maps firmly in my hand. Everything appeared closed or abandoned, that was until I spotted the line and the bright yellow sign.

You don't have to be a Londoner to know that the place with the mammoth line is the place you want to go for a great bite to eat. Although a lot of the locals seemed happy biding their time in the queue, I was smart enough to know that the cool Autumn temps were not kind to hungry travellers. 

Lucky for me Hannah had already scored us a table. It was only a matter of moments before she dragged me inside and after plenty of hugging and gushing, handed me a large cup of coffee.

and it's wasn't even bad...

I'm sorry to the lovely Brits who read HOB but I must admit I've heard nasty rumours about your British brand of sustenance.

The good news is that The Breakfast Club, Soho proved myself and all those Aussie naysayers wrong!
In fact, the coffee here is simply heavenly...

With my Surry Hills Breakfast Club reviews I always aim to include variety in the meals we choose, so that you my hungry darling can have a little taste of everything on the menu. Han had already set her sights on the big All American and for home-style fried potatoes, fluffy poached eggs, crispy sausage, buttery pancakes and streaky bacon with maple syrup I had to break the rules and get it too!

Nom, nom, nom...

So it may have not been a traditional English meal but this crispy bacon was exactly what I needed after a day of horrific plane food.

The interior ain't as flash as you may expect but with a mish mash of 80's memorabilia, catchy pop tunes playing on the stereo and friendly waitstaff who despite the hungry hordes outside don't mind stopping and chatting to you about their really cool Australian sister in law, The Breakfast Club makes you feel like you're right at home. The perfect cure for jet lag and hangovers alike (come on what else was I meant to do alone on a long haul flight?)

HOB tip: the wifi password is 'shebangs' 

Like the Ricky Martin song...

You've got it!

Oh London, I think you and I are going to get a long just fine.

x

I'm Not Dead, Yet!

It’s 9 pm on a Tuesday night and I’m sitting alone in my swanky office amidst a sea of lingerie. Corsets, suspenders, knickers, waspies, chemises and dribs and drabs of other pretty, naughty things. It’s not the stunning city skyline keeping me back late, It’s the fact that I have nowhere else to go tonight. 

I’m a homeless bitch in fancy lingerie. 

I wish I was just being dramatic but in true Heaven on Bourke style my life has taken another unexpected turn, in the absolute wrong direction. 

It was 5:30 pm when we found out that someone had tried to pry open the door to the Dirthouse. Did a really fucking good job at getting in, he did. Smashed the whole exterior of the lock and demolished the key hole. 

Four current Queens stood on the street of Surry Hills in front of the DH as the sun sank beneath a blanket of darkness.

“If he actually got in, I’m going to die.” I said thinking of my laptop full of private 20-something year old girls business. 

“I should have gone to yoga.” said Sammie, one of the delightful British expats who moved in to cover Ms L's rent.

“This locksmith is fucking hopeless” Ms P said pacing back and forth on the footpath. 

“If I can’t get in, whoever did this definitely didn’t get in either” the pudgy bald man said flashing his torch in our faces. 

I felt a mammoth wave relief followed by dread in the pit of my stomach. Who would do this and why? Surely a terrace that looks like a crack den isn’t the most desirable target for theft, I mean while it’s all Laura Ashley inside, from the outside it looks nothing short of a homeless shelter. An hour later we were finally in and dread was soon overcome by exhaustion. I collapsed onto my bed and fell into a shallow sleep. 

*

“I though the scream was in my dream.” Ms P shuddered at the end of my bed, two trembling figures came to the entrance of my door. 

“Whats wrong?” I asked trying to comprehend was was happening. It must have been about 2 am.

“A man just smashed through Sam's window and threatened to kill her, he’s looking for a girl who lives here.” Ms P said fearfully. A chill ran up my spine. 

“Did he get inside?” I asked Sammie who had now walked from the door to my bed. 

“I don’t know.” she said. 

I froze and didn’t dare to ask any more. After multiple calls the police arrived 45 minutes later. 

Lesson #1 of being a 20-something in the big city, if there is ever an incident no matter how small you must report it.

Why? It means that if something else happens the police will make you their first priority. 

“Why didn’t you make a report when you first discovered the attempted break and enter?” the police woman asked us like we were four naughty children.

“Because our landlord told us not to worry about it.”

Lesson #2 of being a 20-something in the big city, when in doubt don’t listen to your landlord, listen to your gut.  

Sammie began to recount the series of sinister affairs to the police, I sat in shock. Apparently he was looking for someone by the name of Madonna. Although it was absurd, he was convinced that someone by that name was in here, so much so that he smashed her front window trying to get in. The worst bit was that he threatened to come back until he found her.

I wanted to be sick. No doubt it was the same psycho who had tried to break into the Dirthouse earlier.

“It sounds like mistaken identity,” the woman said finally.

No shit Sherlock, there’s only one Madonna I know of and she definitely doesn’t reside in the Dirthouse. 

"Chances are whoever it was, they won’t be back.” The other policeman concluded closing his little policeman book.

We all looked at each other. I sure as hell wasn't sticking around to find out.

                                                                                                

*

And so here I am a week out from my big European holiday, working more than ever and actually contemplating sleeping on a bed of lingerie instead of going back to the place where I have lived for the last 3 years. 

Is this the end of The Dirthouse?

A message flashes up on my screen. 

I’m here

Before you merde your pants the message isn't from the Madge obsessed psycho killer. It's from Mr P.S

Where? I reply. I didn't asked him to come.

Out the front of your office … the three dots danced on my screen as he typed ...

I’ve got booze, I've got Misschu's dumplings and ...

I’ve got you baby.

Thank god for my knight in shining Armani. 

Universe are you sending me a sign?