Chelsea is young.
Young couples, good looking people with young kids.
The ones that don’t have kids have Lamborghinis.I am often the oldest person in the room, albeit in the whole street.
Chelsea is packed with yummy-mummies pushing babies in prams who exhibit a wide range of lung power –my Jack Russell terrier, born and bred in Patagonia, in his unworldly manner thinks the noisy kid in the pram is some strange new dog breed; he’d never seen a baby before.
If you don’t have a baby the next best thing in Chelsea is to own a dog. I walk my Jack several times a day and depending on my luck I find a woman who lets her dog play with mine or in the early hours a nice housekeeper form Bolivia with whom to chat.
Occasionally, in the evenings I may come across a good-looking man with the air of assured prosperity and the dog proves to be A. a great ice breaker, B. a feasible conduit for a pick-up or C. a close encounter of the third kind.
Chelsea girls are quite stunning; you see a lot of beauty on the King’s Road. Depending on their mood they are either covered by long flowery dresses or skirts – slightly Amish- or flaunt the shortest skirts ever to walk a street borne by someone usually not in the business of street-walking. This is typically English; you never see it in Paris or New York where they go all black all year round.
Going around Chelsea in summer two things come to mind. How in 17 degree weather –English summer is much like winter in the Southern Hemisphere- they don’t feel the chill and how do they manage to keep the micro, mini, skirts from riding up the wazoo. Every single one wears trainers, the confirmed street footwear for all ages; I had promised myself never to wear those clunky, chunky shoes that do nothing for your ankles or calves. I have succumbed to the pull of street wear and actually find them quite comfy; I may forgo climbing back on heels altogether.
The other group never to feel the cold or cover up is workmen. In blustery weather they still go around in shorts and nary but a cotton sleeve less vest to dress the upper body which, dare I say, usually carries a thick layer of fat and fur; the result of many post-work pints at the local pub, aptly named The Builder’s Arms.
As mentioned before, weather in never a deterrent. One very chilly evening leaving our house we stumble upon two English girls getting dressed on the sidewalk. One is already sporting a tiny sequined dress, the other one is slithering into a silky golden shift with the help of her mate, spaghetti straps and a hanging price tag in the back (probably en route for a wedding, definitely a very recent purchase) all the while perched on vertigo-prducing stilettos. I am talking a sidewalk in Central Chelsea here.
This is typical London, where the proverbial British sense of entitlement puts the natives at ease in the most unsettling of circumstances. In Paris they would be horrified; in New York they would probably get arrested.
I like this nonchalance. This I don’t give a rat’s ass what you may think of me. The complete opposite of my Latin, Catholic, posh straight-laced upbringing, where one is taught to always watch out for what others may be thinking; a sure way to kill spontaneity and take away a lot of the fun in life. So finally I know why I landed here. Not for the vibe, that you can have in New York, not for the cultured speech, you can find that in Paris but for the devil-may-care-attitude and the civility and tolerance that miraculously goes with it.
That and a good cup of tea.
*”Made in Chelsea” a hugely successful TV reality show depicting the life and mores of young people who live in the Borough of Chelsea and Westminster (London). A kind of British "Friends".
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