This year I decided to not fly anywhere for Christmas, for the first time actually. Usually I either go see my parents and sisters in Kenya or I fly off to my boyfriends family in Canada. But this year, having moved three times and that also to a new country, all I could think of was not leaving the flat. Plus my £6.25 intern salary doesn’t really get me a transatlantic ticket.
Luckily seven of my friends were just as lonely and stranded in London, so we joined forces and celebrated at ours. Jared arrived first, drooling over our flatmate’s hundred guitars.
Little by little six more Canadians and two lil brits knocked on the door with salad bowls and tupperware in hand. We had a potluck Christmas to avoid the holiday stress of slaving in the kitchen all day and this way everybody had something they love.
Daniel was smoking hot, cooking Swedish meatballs that tasted DIVINE. Boys in the kitchen make my heart weak. <3 Like a lil family the eight of us sat around our table, eating cheese on crackers and arguing over Pitchfork’s top 100 tracks of the year.
Here we have: Oli who’s together with Danielle who’s brother is Anthony and then Daniel, Jared and Ivanna.
My babe Danielle got both me and Daniel socks for Christmas, because what else right.
The only tradition we did follow was eating until you are unable to walk.
Big time food coma.
We found a pool table top in our hallway (I honestly feel like I find weird shit in our new flat all the time it’s insane) and started a tournament. I won, because I’m so competitive and REFUSE to lose, which makes me a massive loser I’m sure. More lonely souls knocked on our door and I showed boys how to get rid of hickups by drinking upside down. It worked.
People danced, skyped, drank, slumbered at ours until midnight. When everybody had walked back home Daniel and I stayed up until 2am, playing Swedish 80s rock, eating all the leftover cheese and sweets whilst celebrity gossiping.
No snow, no parents, no santa and no presents, but oh so lovely still.