The last year and a half of development has been an absolute chore.
The strains of paying for the architectural design work alone has threatened to put my very own livelihood at stake.
Before starting this project, I was a simple working Joe. Just a blue-collar girl taking the tube, like everyone else, out of Chelsea and into the Financial Workhouses of Canary Wharf. I was your everyday, totally relatable, Hedge Fund Manager. One of thousands, if not millions in the country, trying to scrape a living just like everyone else. Working the 9-5 grind; getting stuck in the endless routine of ordering breakfast into the office – meeting for coffee, maybe a 5-minute phone call, casual sex with the twenty-something secretary, going out for lunch at The Ivy, then it’s onto more sex with someone else’s secretary and then back home, beaten down by a hard day’s work, for dinner and sex with my twenty-something toy boy and a few whiskeys before bed.
I knew I was stuck in the London bubble that millions of others were in. Every morning and night, upon waking and sleeping, I could hear their cries (not literally, I lived in a safe quiet neighbourhood, quite removed from any noise pollution) of my fellow working man. Until one day, already into my second course at lunch, I thought:
I decided then and there, that I would break the cycle. Not just for my own peace of mind, but for every trapped soul just like me – struggling to scratch a living on a six-figure salary. That’s when I looked down at my plate, and knew what I must do. The remnants of my swordfish stared back at me. I finished my meal, ordered dessert, finished the dessert and once I’d drained two coffees and an aperitif; I stood up and declared to The Ivy:
‘I, Susan Green, of sound body and mind, declare that I will no longer work here in this hell hole of a City. I’m going to Robin Hood’s Bay to open a High-End seafood Restaurant – I’m leaving you vampires, you social zombies. I’m leaving this dirty city with it’s sleepless nights and kilos of coke…right after I take some coke. Does anyone have any coke?’
The restaurant fell silent, shocked – in awe. A blubbery white gentleman, in a Savile Rowe pinstripe four-piece, slowly raised his hand.
‘I…I have some.’
His eyes met mine. Although his outer exterior exuded the kind of opulence and comfort that I despised, his eyes glittered with a hard edge of grit, determination and coke. I knew right away that this would be the man who would help me open my restaurant, the man who would drag me away from the rock-hard bodies of twenty-something receptionists and get me more buzzed than any high-grade Colombian blow ever could.
That’s the story of how I met my husband Jeffrey. We both share a passion for fine food, wine and criminally expensive narcotics. The restaurant might be a way off opening but, until then, we can cover the floor in mattresses and just get high.
Thank God I’m not in London anymore.