Goodbye Rabbit Hutch

Farewell then, little boxlike apartment.

You may have been tiny. Tinier even than the lying letting agent told us. You may have been painfully expensive. But you did have a great view.

Living in a box is okay when one of the walls is all rooftops and sky

If you squint you can make out the top of the Chrysler, too. Trust me.

Since one of our London flat requirements is a garden, I imagine we'll be living rather closer to the ground than the 14th floor of Rabbit Hutch Towers. I wonder if I'll miss it, all that sky.

I was talking to a New Yorker recently who complained at how small the London sky is. I don't think that's quite true. London has much fewer highrises than New York, especially in the leafy 'burbs but even in relatively central areas like Marylebone, or Belgravia. The tallest buildings in most parts of town are usually five or six stories. So there's plenty of sky.

But the sky in New York is so often that lovely clear, bright, crisp blue. In London a fair amount of cloud cover is the norm. And that blanket of cloud makes the sky seem closer.

Call me crazy but I've missed those grey London skies. I can't wait to get back to them.

It hasn't been completely unbearable

As we make our goodbyes, our New York friends have been asking us if we've enjoyed our time here. With puppy dog sad eyes, they say things like 'we get the impression you might not really love New York'. And then we feel bad.

Because we're always harping on about how great Malibu was, and how excited we are about settling in London. Poor New York seems to be no more than an inconvenient stepping stone. And we moan about our rent and the size of the apartment and the smart Manhattanites nod sagely as if to say 'if you're still moaning about that, you haven't really 'got it' yet...'

So allow me to set the record straight. New York, we like you. We like you a lot.

We like your excellent coffee shops and bars. We love our neighbourhood, the High Line, and all our favourite local restaurants. TLOML really likes all the good pizza slice places. I really like running along the Hudson riverside. We love Tribeca, especially when combined with afternoon drinking. We like always being able to pay with a card in a cab, and I like those little TV screens in the cabs too (TLOML not so much...). We like a lot of buildings, especially in Chelsea. So many that the phrase 'I like that building' is spoken almost as often as 'Want to grab a slice?'

We like this building

We like walking everywhere. Especially walking home from dinner in the West Village, feeling smug about our neighbourhood. And wandering down Fifth or Madison late at night after an Upper East Side dinner, and looking in all the shop windows. TLOML likes the quality of the steak houses. We both love the bagel options near us. And the diversity of people who live here (especially after LA, where the population of blondes-chasing-dreams is just a little too dominant). We like those bright blue clear skies you get so many of (though we don't love the sweltering humidity or icy cold that accompanies them so often).

And most of all, we like the people. Specifically, those dear New Yorker friends who we have loved being able to hang out with so much in the past 10 months. Now it's back to email and Facebook contact, at least for most of the time. We will miss them more than anything, I think.

Just because we didn't buy the t-shirt, or sign up for a condo... we really, truly, do like New York.

Did my t-shirt send the wrong message?

Glad I cleared that up.

Craig's List Crazies

TLOML and I have entered the twilight world of Craig's List. No, not the swingers section. The section for people who are leaving town and want to make a few dollars selling the stuff which isn't worth packing.

We did this once before, when we left Malibu for New York. Maybe I'm looking back with rose-tinted glasses (as I often do) on our Malibu experience, but I don't remember there being nearly so many crazies out there in SoCal.

The Big Apple is a different story. Well over half the New Yorkers who respond to Craig's List have abandoned the use of sentences all together. If they're really advanced they string a couple of text symbols together, to make a phrase like 'U still wan2 sell?'. One word emails like 'interested', 'yes', or '$50' (in response to an ad for something we've listed at $100) clutter my inbox. At first I'd reply in sentences, in an attempt to educate these chumps. But they didn't play the game, and kept coming back with their strangely abrupt emails.

My new rule is not to respond at all to people who don't write in sentences. They don't deserve it and I don't need the money that badly. Their loss is Goodwill's gain.

Of the New York Craig's Listers who can write in sentences, half of them are basically idiots with no spatial reasoning or common sense. (And this is coming from someone who has pretty limited spatial reasoning.) But what kind of fool thinks they can get a 2.5' x 2' x 5' chest of drawers in the back seat of a NY cab? Or that they can take a desk home on the subway?

I would love to meet the NY cab driver who'll pick you up on the street with this item

The desk guy was actually my favourite loonie. He was without a doubt the flakiest person I have ever met. After a barrage of flakey emails he finally showed up to buy the desk he had told us was 'just what I'm looking for'. He admired it, opened and shut the drawers, and stroked the veneer.

Then he stepped back and said. 'The thing is, I haven't really thought this through. Like I don't know if it will actually fit. I guess I should measure the space I have for it.'

We concurred. He went on to say, 'I could just take it. It'd probably be fine. Only, I was thinking I could take it on the subway but I guess that would be kinda awkward.'

It would be. The nearest subway is a fifteen minute walk away. The desk does not have castors.

Again, we concurred. TLOML pointed out the U-haul over the road. 'Oh, do you think they have someone who will drive for me?' said the muppet.

Hmmm. Last we checked U-haul don't offer a chauffeur service, no. At this point, TLOML was at his wits end, but I was starting to warm to this poor, hapless boy.

The hapless one admitted, 'You know, I guess I didn't really prepare for any of this. [exaggerated sigh]'. And we showed him the door.

Fortunately for every 3 crazies, muppets and flakes, there is 1 solid person who shows up with the cash and transportation. Some of them have nice stories or a firm handshake or both. They restore our faith. And they fill up our little Craig's List bounty envelope. Hopefully it will stand us a good NY strip steak before we leave.

Living in a box

Once you take the sofa, our battered old screen, and some of the other random stuff out, it becomes even more painfully apparent how boxlike our apartment is. Not just in its size (shoebox) but its shape. Rabbit Hutch is being too kind, in that it suggests a nice rustic, indoor-outdoor vibe. Nope, our place is just a box. A small, oblong box.

I'm sure we'll miss these clean straight lines when we move into a London flat. Those old London houses don't have a right angle anywhere, and sloping floors and doors that don't quite shut right are common. All part of the charm though...

For the next few days, though, we are in a rather charmless environment of blank walls and newly exposed pieces of perfectly parqueted, straight-edged, flooring.

Not only are we living in a box, we are also increasingly surrounded by boxes. Not nany, as the packers will do most of the packing (guess that's how they got their name). But as we Craig's List our furniture, we need a place to put the contents of that furniture. So the desk and the chest of drawers have been replaced by boxes.


This post sounds a bit moany so far, but to be honest I'm perfectly happy. It's only for a few days, and then I'm homeward bound.

Who needs a sofa, or a dining table and chairs, anyway?

And meanwhile, even when we're living in and out of boxes, we do okay. Take last night's 'we're moving, no time or energy to cook, nowhere to sit and eat' dinner: Italian spaghetti sauce with meatballs (courtesy of Connecticut's best family's Italian grandmother's recipe), and a properly decanted bottle of Honig Cabernet Sauvignon (courtesy of our favourite New Yorker). Oh, and homemade dulce de leche for pudding (had to use that tin of condensed milk up somehow).

Yes, we'll survive this box life for a few more days.

The Great 'No Cable' Experiment

As our time in Manhattan draws to a close, so too does the great 'no cable TV' experiment.

After our noses had stopped bleeding at the thought of our rent, we decided to save a few dollars each month and embrace the digital revolution. With the advent of live streaming services like Netflix and Hulu we could cut the chains that had bound us to Verizon for too long! What was the point of spending $100 a month on umpteen cable channels, when we really only watch about 3 of them?  And as New Yorkers apparently never stay in anyway, we'd probably rarely switch the telly on.

And so the experiment began. We signed up for a Hulu Plus account, and between that and Netflix we were spending about $15 per month on subscriptions. We made a small investment in an Apple TV, and an even smaller one in a 'bunny ears' TV aerial for the free stuff. Then we sat back and rubbed our hands together in smug self-congratulation.

Sadly the 'aren't we clever' bubble was soon burst. It turns out we watch quite a lot of TV. Most nights we will, at some point, curl up on the sofa and look for something amusing and reasonably current (30 Rock, Parks and Rec) or at least classic (Seinfeld). Annoyingly, Hulu Plus is usually a couple of weeks behind the series it does have, and sometimes whole shows disappear altogether. It also has an increasing number of ads, and unlike our old DVR service on Verizon, we can't fast forward through them. The Netflix selection is pretty woeful too.

Fortunately for our wallets and sanity, TLOML got me hooked on Battle Star Galactica. We watch a couple of episodes a week which is great. Otherwise we'd have to spend our nights in playing Gin Rummy (and I'm tired of losing) or watching old period dramas (I liked North and South fine the first time around, but once was enough).

There's a reason people pay for cable. Life with HBO is better.

I'm looking forward to getting home and signing up for a nice juicy Sky/ Virgin subscription so I can watch Test Match cricket and TLOML can still enjoy all the action from the NFL. In fact the best TV in the UK is free - BBC News 24, Grand Designs, One Born Every Minute. Ooof! I'm getting all misty-eyed just thinking about it. And I am reliably informed that Man Vs Food is now showing on an obscure Freeview channel too.

Yes, moving back to the UK will truly usher in a new age of cultural enrichment in our lives. And a lot more staying in....

A season for giving

Giving many many tips, that is.

Grown ups in the UK often tip their milkman, the dustbin men and the postman. I think a tenner used to be the norm, but as I never felt sufficiently grown up to do it, I don't know for sure.

Now we live in a building with actual staff, I suppose it's time to grow up. Tips all round, for the hard working team of Rabbit Hutch Towers.

I thought we could just give our favourites some money, and skip the rest. TLOML says that's not fair. So we sought the advice of our favourite New Yorker, on the logistics and etiquette of festive white glove tipping. She told us to expect a 'Happy Holidays' card from the building, with everyone's names it in, so we didn't miss anyone.

For a couple of weeks now we've been eagerly awaiting this note. They send it very late at Rabbit Hutch Towers - it just arrived on Thursday. There are fourteen people on the list.

I wondered aloud if we have to tip everyone, even that guy with George Michael beard who the other staff clearly don't like, and this 'Jewell' who I've never seen before in my life. I suggested to TLOML that we go down the list of fourteen people and each put a mark next to the names of the ones we recognise. Anyone without a mark gets no tip.

Again, he says this is unfair. I grudgingly accept he is right. Also, the unseen staff probably work harder than anyone. TLOML claims 'Jewell' is that really friendly lady he sees all the time in the elevator.

Okay, fine, we'll tip that mysterious woman who spends all day going up and down in the lifts. And the George Michael beard guy, maybe he's unpopular because he has to hold people to task, and he does a really great job.

So, we will tip them all. 'Tis the season, and all that. According to the interweb, a tip of $20 to $100 per person is acceptable. You do the math... Suffice to say we're sticking towards the lower end of that spectrum.

Finally, the etiquette of giving. Is it okay to just stick the money in an envelope with their name on it? I say not, which is why I started my Friday writing 14 identical Christmas cards. Is it safe to just leave cash, or is a cheque smarter? After all, if Jewell is disgruntled hardly anyone tipped her, what's to stop her lifting a few of those envelopes full of crisp Benjamins (or in our case, Andrew Jacksons)? This is is why TLOML will start his weekend writing 14 almost identical cheques.

Happy Holidays! And I hope you get all the tips you deserve, even if all you do is ride in a lift all day.

A Fall tableau at Rabbit Hutch Towers

Barely a week after the spooky Hallowe'en display was removed, this creation has sprung up in the lobby of Rabbit Hutch Towers.

What is it? Why is it there? What is it for?

TLOML is on his way home as I type. I will ask him. It's a full time job, explaining American life to me, sometimes.

-----------------------------
20 MINUTES LATER
-----------------------------
Me: 'Did you see that thing in the lobby with the trees and the wheelbarrow and the pumpkins? What is it?'
TLOML: 'I didn't even notice' (note to readers - this display is 10 foot tall) 'It must be for Thanksgiving. Harvest! It's harvest time!'

That explains it. Makes an attractive, if selfish, change from those cardboard boxes with felt-tip 'donate tins here' signs on them that decorate lobbies for British harvest festivals I suppose.

Happy Hallowe'en!

It is about this time of year that Americans go absolutely mental. I say 'about this time' because although today is Hallowe'en, they've been working up to it for weeks now.

I was first alerted to the onslaught of holiday fever when we were invited to a pumpkin patch, run by the managers of Rabbit Hutch Towers, a couple of weeks ago. I was a bit confused by its location, in a little park in Tribeca.
'Wow,' I said, 'I can't believe anyone grows pumpkins in Tribeca!'
'No, you jackalope!', TLOML gently corrected me. 'They don't grow them there. They truck them in from Illinois and put them out on display in the park in Tribeca, for people to go and pick them.'

This is no pick-your-own-fruit scenario. By 'pick' they mean 'pick up from a cutesy display'.  Here's a pumpkin patch in sunny Marin County.

There's a massive 15 foot long wall of pumpkins - all shapes and sizes, some ready carved too - in Chelsea Market. I meant to take a photo, but since I always tut loudly at tourists taking photos of groceries in there, I felt I couldn't. Not even in the name of art my blog. Here's one I nicked from someone's blog:

Not content with having an enormous pumpkin patch thing, Chelsea Market is also leading the way in spooky displays. Apparently this one has caused a bit of a stir, for being too ghoulish.

They love a ghoulish display, do our American brethren. This effort has dominated the lobby of Rabbit Hutch Towers for a couple of weeks.

And people who live in houses have made the most of having their own front door by, um, covering it in fake cobwebs and putting pumpkins and skulls outside.

No, I don't know why either. But when I ask - especially when I take my special, cynical tone - TLOML accuses me of being unfestive, or unAmerican, or some such. (He will change his tune when I unveil the gingerbread house I am currently fantasizing about constructing).

So, tonight's the night all this pumpkin spookiness really peaks - and I am home alone. I was thinking of baking some cookies for trick-or-treaters - glad of the excuse to create some full fat treats and then foist them on others. But apparently kids these days aren't allowed to take anything other than a heavily wrapped, additive-full candy bar. I think it's in case that scarey English lady in Apartment P has poisoned the homemade cookies.

Instead, I am going to ignore the whole shebang and watch an old episode of Sex and the City. Bah humbug indeed!

The lesser known Sky Line park

The High Line extension opened this week. The High Line was an elevated freight railway, which ran along the piers and warehouses of Chelsea and the West side - right through the middle of buildings to avoid darkening the avenues below. It used to go into the biscuit factory which is now the Chelsea Market, probably delivering butter and sugar and rolling pins, which was surely work of national importance.

After making a final delivery of frozen turkeys in 1980, it fell into disuse. Nature took the railway over and created something much prettier and quieter, but somewhat less useful for butter and sugar deliveries.

In 2009, as the local news anchor put it, in a rather Day Today-esque turn of phrase, 'what was once just the dream of a bunch of activists' became a reality: the High Line Park was opened. Between 21st Street and Gansevoort Street those crazy activists replaced the weeds you see above with pretty grasses and concrete slabs and little water fountains and public art.

It was a cool little park but rather on the short side. You could get from one end to the other in about 10 minutes flat. It was handy for us on our saunter back from the Chelsea Market but that's about it.

Until this week... when the extension opened. It runs past our block now, and all the way up to 30th Street now. I'm not quite sure when we'd ever go to Midtown but just in case... we no longer need to cross a single street to get to 30th Street.

The new bit is really good. It has a big patch of lawn and you get up close to the backs of residential buildings, in a way the first stretch doesn't really do.

Rabbit Hutch Towers is just out of sight on the right of the redbrick building

Also, we now have an icecream van parked right on our block most days. Most convenient.

 

The other, less exciting impact, is the arrival of a flood of tourists. West 23^rd Street was always relatively free of out-of-towners but the High Line attracts them like wasps to orangina. Most of them are probably off to get in the way of actual shoppers by taking photos of fruit at Chelsea Market’s Manhattan Fruit Exchange. Grrr. "Off my land, tourists!"

TLOML and I saw one chump yelling into his mobile, Dom Joly style, ‘I’m in the Skyline Park! No, the Skyline!’

We smirked at each other like the smug New Yorkers we have already become.

Yeah, maybe the onslaught of tourists isn’t such a bad thing. It's always nice to have someone to make you feel superior.

A greedyguts tour of our new 'hood and its environs

(In case you hadn't already figured it out, you can tell I'm not really street by the way I use an apostrophe for the contraction of neighbourhood.)

So anyway, about our new 'hood... Rabbit Hutch Towers is not quite the heart of Chelsea, being a couple of blocks too far west for that. I suppose it's the left pec, or maybe the left abs of Chelsea. But we are in a pretty good spot for food.

Within our first weekend we spotted so many great looking places to eat that there was a risk we never leave our block. Which would be a shame given all the great variety the world east of 10th has to offer.

So TLOML made a strict rule: NO REPEAT VISITS WITHIN TWO MONTHS.
Some clauses:
a) The rule only applies to proper meals. So the repeat visits to the Half King and the Drunken Horse don't count, since we mainly had booze and cheese.
b) The rule only applies since we moved to New York on 9th April. So we can go back for roast pork and burnt ends at Porchetta any time we like.

Still, the return to places we loved, for a proper meal, is out until our two month 'trying everything once' period is over. I told a wise New Yorker this last night and she laughed and said 'you could do that for a year and still have plenty to try... anyway, that place you loved might be gone and replaced with something new in two months time.'

Oh I hope not! The list of places I can't wait to return to is growing by the day.

Living without the wonderful BES - with its incredible lobster ravioli and ginger crusted snapper, and great big photos of bottoms - till June seems intolerable. No zuppa di pescue at Bottino for six more weeks? Shame!

Last night's discovery, Tia Pol, was serving up croquetas so good I want them for breakfast. Every day. And the squid in ink, oh! I miss it already.

Wonder TLOML notice if I sneaked out and scarfed a couple...

The Red Cat, the perfect neighbourhood bistro, cosy, vibey, unambitious but solid, is begging us to return every time we walk past the door. Down in the village, Mary's Fish Camp was worth the hour long wait: for that amazing, mayonnaisey lobster roll I'll wait again as soon as I'm allowed. Further afield, Soba Totto's tasty yakitori and perfect soba left me wanting more.

My waistline may thank me for waiting a little while before returning to Righteous Urban Barbeque, where TLOML ate his own body weight in babybacks. But Le Grainne, the sweet place with the great crepes? I'm dying to go back! And Bombay Talkie, the first curry I've eaten outside of New Jersey was only average, but it's so close, and average curry is so good, I think we'll be back before June is out.

And can I really wait that long to soak up champagne, perfect moules, and soft light at Pastis again? I'm not sure I can...

So yes, this two month embargo will not be easy. Thank goodness there are still some good places to try...

But TLOML can take care of that: I'm heading out of town for three and half weeks, which I think is the only sensible way to spend this NO REPEAT VISITS period.

Chelsea Dog Show

When I walk out of the front door of Rabbit Hutch Towers, there are usually one or two dogs outside the building. They're usually also, by the way, pretty cute. By the time I reach the end of the block, I'll have passed another half a dozen. And in the space of a ten minute walk, I'll probably pass thirty dogs. Here in Chelsea they are typically nice looking dogs, often sporting a natty little dog jacket, or at least a stylish collar and lead.

I'd say on average, for every two people, I see one dog. I wanted to take photos of them all. I had in mind an experiment where I took a photo of every dog I saw within one block of our place. But TLOML's camera is on the blink so that will have to wait.

Instead here is some more evidence of canine population density:

This is a map of my immediate neighbourhood, roughly a 10-15 minute radius around Rabbit Hutch Towers. Every red dot on this map is a pet shop. Allow me to count them for you.

 Twenty two. That's right, there are 22 pet shops within a ten minute walk from my front door.

This is a shop down the road in the West Village, which is run by a lady who paints pet portraits. And that is her business. Incredible. I get that someone could make a nice supplementary income painting pet portraits, sure. But enough to run an actual shop off the back of it? They wouldn't buy it on Dragon's Den (aka Shark Tank in the US), that's for sure.

And yet right here in New York, where apartments are famously miniscule and shop rents presumably pretty damn high, there are enough pet dogs to make Mimi's shop a perfectly viable business.

So my question of the day is, given that people are living in rabbit hutches, where on earth do all these dogs live?

I know of a luxury building (in MiMA funnily enough) where they have a dog gym complete with treadmill. Perhaps New York's dirty dog secret is a large battery-hen-style facility where all these dogs live, being picked up to parade through Chelsea once a day. If not, perhaps that will be my Dragon's Den idea... there's definitely a market for it.

White Gloves

When we were apartment hunting in New York, TLOML and I scoffed at ads which made a point of stating a 'white glove building.' Having lived all my life with no white gloved doorman, I was pretty sure I could survive a little longer without.

Apparently I am not alone in this. According to this dude, quoted in the NY Observer, "Tenants are sacrificing living conditions. They are leaving doorman buildings and going into elevator buildings." Oh, the horror!

Well, having given up a place on stilts over the Pacific, where it was sunny 350 days a year, I think we're the embodiment of 'sacrificing living conditions'. An elevator building? Heck, we'd take a walk-up.  (Walk-ups, i.e. buildings without elevators where you actually have to walk up stairs to get to your apartment, are the lowest of the low here. Although, again, having lived without an elevator in my home till now, I could definitely struggle on without one).

So TLOML and I looked at walk-ups, elevator buildings and white glove buildings alike, without prejudice. We took our place in Rabbit Hutch Towers because of the brilliant location, the absence of a broker's fee, and the fact that panic had set in, frankly.

So the doormen are a bonus - but I'm already enjoying them.

They don't wear white gloves, but they do wear a rather smart khaki that chimes nicely with the lobby's autumnal decor. They are all named something-beginning-with J, which is convenient as it makes it easier to remember their names. And if you forget you can just mumble 'Jer-um-ahem-son' and it will work. They are unfailing smiley and cheery and of average, or above average, attractiveness. They have the kind of faces you are happy to see.

The Js email us when a package arrives - no more coming home to find a box has been sitting on the doormat all day getting damp with Malibu sea mist. They send our drycleaning and our mail out. And when we have cardboard boxes to dispose of, we call them and they send a janitor up to take them away. Actually, even if we don't call, a recent experiment confirmed that if we leave the boxes outside for more than 4 hours, they get taken away. This for me is the height of luxury.

Frankly I'm starting to wonder how we will ever cope without them when we move to London, a city devoid of white gloves.

Yesterday they had a basket with little Easter bunny chocolates in on the front desk. In order to justify our exorbitant rent, we took down a couple each.  As TLOML said, 'If you imagine these are worth $100 each, our rent starts to look almost reasonable'.

I suppose the key to living in a white glove building is to make the very most of those white gloves, or else you'll just resent them. I might give Jerry, Jason or Julio a call and see if they wouldn't mind popping up and helping me finish the crossword.

Best things... small packages... really?

Having moved into a shoebox, I no longer believe the maxim.

We're paying 20% more for a place which is not even on stilts over the Pacific (I know, your heart bleeds for us doesn't it?). What's worse it is less than half the size of our beach pad. Ouch.

TLOML and I asked a New Yorker 'Isn't this crazily small? Aren't we paying an insanely high rent?' and she shook her head sagely and said with an air of resignation, 'This is what a New York one bedroom is like'.

Then she gave TLOML and I a look of pure pity for all the time we spent in California being softened up, and accumulating possessions a New Yorker would never dream of. The surfboard and the oversized clubchair are just two examples of things that almost literally don't fit into our apartment.

Still, living in a box is at least forcing us to be creative. Windowsills serve as bookshelves, and a much loved painting we have no space to hang is being used as a sort of screen around my desk. Our funky old medicine cabinet is being converted into a spice rack, which will practically double the kitchen storage space.

I like moving in somewhere, organising, establishing a system of sorts and hanging art. So I'm enjoying these little creative moments very much. But the shoebox just isn't getting any bigger.

Every time I leave the apartment or even look out of the window, I say 'I love New York!'. And with roughly the same frequency I'm coining the cheering phrase 'We won't be here forever!'. I say it every time I have to use my entire body weight to close the doors of what has become known as The Cupboard of Doom. (2 Malibu closets into 1 New York closet just doesn't go).

Still saying I love New York though...

Moving on... up?

Sometimes in life you have to move backwards to move forwards. Which is why TLOML and I have moved from the easy life in our roomy Malibu beach pad to a rabbit hutch.

New York is where TLOML’s dreams of world domination (in a purely business sense) will come true. And my dreams of living in a city, with noise and people and things I can walk to, will come true.

The world domination part is a work in progress. But I’m already living my dream. Within one block of our apartment – oh! Pause for joyous reflection! We live in a block! (There were no blocks in Malibu). Anyway, yes, within one block of our new pad is a great boozer called the Half King*, a tapas place, a French bistro which spearheaded the Chelsea restaurant gentrification era 12 years ago, a little Izakaya, a place called the Drunken Horse which does great cheese and wine, an old school Italian, and an exposed brick and scrubbed oak gastropub. And these are just the places which were buzzingly busy on Saturday night. So the street outside our little rabbit hutch is pretty promising.

What’s more, within 10 blocks is the legendary Pastis, Chelsea Market for proper cheese, bread and good meat, and Morimoto which just might replace Nobu as our local sushi joint.

As we explore the new ‘hood I’m uttering ‘I LOVE New York!’ at every corner. I just hope the residents of Chelsea provide me as much entertainment as the good people of Malibu did. Will we miss Dick Van Dyke and the Malibu Barbies? Something tells me they will be quickly forgotten as they are replaced by our new neighbours: mainly large burly men walking toy dogs with little dog outfits… we’re talking sunglasses and little Barbour jackets. I fully expect to see a French bulldog in a sailor suit the next time I step out of our building.

*The Half King describes itself as 'a bar owned by writers'. Which I think is a rather selfconscious way to describe a bar, even if it's true. And it's owned by Sebastian Junger, so it is true. This could be the kick my writing career needs. Perhaps through osmosis, I might soak up some of Junger's literary success. This is my excuse to cosy into the Half King on a nightly basis. It is, by the way, a great bar.