I have got a bad relationship with Chelsea. I had two boyfriends who lived there: one nice, one nasty. And a lot of kids from school lived there, so I spend a good portion of my teenage years tramping those streets: Cadogan Square, Sloane Street, King’s Road, Ormonde Square, Eaton Square… always wanting to belong, because everything was so beautiful, but never actually.
I had to go back last night as Sam was playing the shaker in a school concert, (we’re not a musical family). I parked in between a Range Rover and a Porsche and marvelled at how much even more bougie Chelsea had become in the 25 years I have stayed away. Finance bros in puffy gilets swilled white wine outside Napa Valley-style bars and grills, ladies with puffy lips dressed all in beige carrying tiny dogs spent £60 on three things from the Chelsea General Store. The whole place was totally spotless.
I went for a wander outside during the interval because the performance hall bar was hot and crowded and I think I might be a bit claustrophobic. God, it was triggering, walking those streets in the dark, miles from home, feeling that terrible feeling Chelsea always used to give me, which was that I wasn’t good enough. Everything was so extremely smooth and shiny, everything smelled of new books and freshly-painted joinery. It made me think of that great Rachel Cusk line - she was staying in a very smart hotel, (unnamed but I think it was a Soho House place), and observes that everything in the hotel room is so perfect - and the only thing that isn’t perfect is her.
It was very chaotic after the concert, with possibly a thousand souls spilling out on to the narrow street outside. I couldn’t find Sam amongst all the other hundreds of little boys all dressed identically in white shirts and bow ties (it looked like the first day at the Los Angeles school for car valets). I stood in the crowd and felt completely lost and powerless, crushed by the spotless streets and unimaginable sums of money tied away in the property around me, unable to see my son. Was he even there? When do I start panicking? Then, through the crowd, an angry tuft of hair. I took his hand and we went back to the car. “That was crazy,” he said, hanging on tightly, a little shaken.
I felt tense until we got to the top of Camden, then I switched Waze off because I know the way from there. Sam took my phone and put on This Is Me and as we drove on through Camden, past the Hobgoblin and under the bridge, and past the Clozapine dispensary, round the back of the garden centre, past the Parakeet and onwards to home I felt so grateful that I learned early to get away from places - and, ultimately, people - who make me feel bad.
I got home and drank a large glass of corked red wine, because that was all there was in the house, and ate cheese on toast. I slept badly and felt sad and my husband patted me kindly: he’s got a problem with Chelsea, too. There’s nothing wrong with Chelsea, it hasn’t done anything bad to me - in many ways it’s an amazing spectacle - but making peace with who you are and where you belong is important.
This morning I walked Kitty to school, back past the Clozapine dispensary and the garden centre and the Parakeet and it was warm and wet from the rain. We smelled something acrid and then marijuana and a lot of general bin juice rising from the pavement.
“Quite a smelly morning,” said Kitty.
“Isn’t it,” I said, with a spring in my step.
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Agree, there's a real freedom in living somewhere that's not stiflingly middle class. Creative freedom to dress and ultimately spend your days, as you choose. I too went to a uni for posh folks, and always knew I was beyond 'on the outskirts' of many of them. "So what do yooooo do?" was the dreaded question at parties in the late 90s. Seems being a teacher in a state comp does not equal a worthy conversation partner. It's taken a couple of decades bit I'm no longer intimidated. Challenge now is to pass on this worthy wisdom to the offspring!