When I look at the statistics for this blog I can see all the words people have typed into Google that lead them to this website.
‘Rosie Not a Londoner’
‘Gaydar girls weird’
‘Embarrassing work stories’
‘Rosie Londoner boyfriend’
‘Rosie Londoner recipes’
‘Rosie Londoner rich’
‘Rosie Londoner annoying’
‘Rosie Londoner fat’
‘How does Rosie Londoner stay so slim?’
I was amazed and rather flattered that people were bothered enough about the blog (and my weight) to Google my name… until I realised that by some strange coincidence there is another blog called ‘The Londoner‘ and it is written by someone called Rosie.
Sadly for me, almost all the people typing ‘Rosie’ and ‘Londoner’ into Google were looking for Rosie the real Londoner and have found my blog by accident.
Even more sadly for me, she is slimmer, cooler and way more glamorous than me. She even makes an actual full time wage from writing her Londoner blog, and by the look of her designer clothes and handbags this wage is rather impressive. She refers to herself as a ‘roaming blogger’ and is forever travelling to exotic locations and uploading impressive selfies of herself in posh hotels, film premieres and the smarter parts of London:
The benefits of being the real thing huh?!
I have to admit the pictures on her blog are pretty cool and she has added loads of amazing recipes. Being partial to a bit of grub myself and being genuinely interested in how she manages to eat so much and stay so slim, I have decided to compare my daily diet with the diet of Rosie the real Londoner.
Rosie the real Londoner recommends skinny breakfast ice cream and by the looks of things she drinks it out of a conch shell, before beginning her roaming blog post from her luxury beach resort in Fiji.
Meanwhile, I can usually be found scoffing pastries from Pret in the City of London after a sweaty and unpleasant journey to work in a tube carriage that smells of wet dog.
Rosie the real Londoner drinks iced lattes in New York, but not me. I start my mornings with a nice cup of camomile and while my workmates are brewing strong pots of coffee, I am sipping herbal infusions such as lavender and orange blossom ‘to aid restful sleep’. Honestly, try it. Living in London is stressful enough without having the caffeine jitters. It will make you a social outcast among your peers but you will be too relaxed to care.
Business lunches are always a dilemma for me, because if the booze starts flowing at 1pm there is no way I can go back to the office and do productive work afterwards. Other people are much more skilled at drinking and working but I barely function as it is, let alone when drunk.
I can get away with being shouty and obnoxious in the restaurant but back in the office it’s a different matter.
‘Hello!’ I greet the remaining team, who are silently working away in the silent office. ‘What have I missed?!’
They look at me strangely and carry on working. ‘Have I done shumthung wrong?’ I slur at them, tripping over my chair and breathing booze fumes in their faces. ‘You do still like me don’t you..?’
Meanwhile, Rosie the real Londoner is sipping brunch time champagne cocktails in New York, looking ever so slightly more poised.
Rosie the real Londoner recommends the anti-diet which is basically ‘only eat when you are hungry’. She even enjoys regular meals of delicious dirty burgers and still manages to look amazing:
Suspicious of this strategy, the wife and I ignored Rosie the real Londoner’s conventional wisdom and decided to give up carbs as of this morning.
At 4pm, while out shopping, we had the following conversation:
Wife: Are you okay? You are a bit quiet.
Me: I am fine, just a bit hungry
Wife: Shall we nip into Planet Organic and get you a spinach and tofu salad?
Me: No, I really want a croissant or something
Wife: Oh God me too, I really want a pastry. Shall we look in that bakery and see what they have?
Me: We had better not.
Wife: You are right, we had better not. I do fancy a pie though.
Me: Oh God me too, I really fancy a pie. Shall we see if this pub on the corner sells pies?
Wife: Okay, but if they don’t let’s take it as a sign and go home and have some roasted vegetables.
[The pub didn’t sell pies]
Me: Shall we just see if that pub across the road sells pies?
Wife: Yes, let’s just see if that other pub sells pies and if not let’s take it as a sign and go home and have roasted vegetables.
[The second pub didn’t sell pies]
Wife: How about we just walk along Warren Street and see if any of the pubs along there sell pies and if they don’t we will take it as a sign and go home for some roasted vegetables?
Me: Okay cool
[Only one of the pubs on Warren Street had pies, and we didn’t fancy Chicken, Leek and ham hock]
Wife: I tell you what, why don’t you get on your bike and scout the whole area to find out which pubs sell pies and then give me a call when you find the best place and I will meet you there?
I immediately set off in search of pies. I looked and I looked. The Fitrovia Tavern usually sold pies, but today they only did Sunday lunches. All the other pubs were really busy with the football on.
I was just starting to lose hope when I spotted:
Yes this story has a happy ending:
Rather than feel bad about it, I am taking heart from Rosie the real Londoner who eats delicious food all the time and still looks like this in a bikini:
I am going to have a go at her recipes and her anti-diet with the hope of looking like this too. I will keep you posted…