The course of true Lovedon never did run smooth.

Well, I know one thing; this post will probably be less entertaining than the others. However, I promise I'll try my best not to make you want to put Titanic on the DVD player, don a pair of fleecy pyjamas and cry yourself softly to sleep after watching Jack sod off, even though he told Rose he wouldn't. And that promise is directed at other people besides my brother.

I've effectively come out of the other side of what's been three nightmare months. That explosion you can hear is probably the sound of me dropping that tres uncheerful bombshell indeed. Or maybe you've left your jacket potato in the microwave for too long like I did during my university years, which resulted in me setting my kitchen on fire. Potatoes, apparently, are nicely done in about four minutes. And well 'nuked' after twenty five. For the last time, I got distracted.

You know what they say, you can't have the sunshine without the rain. And Christ in a lifeboat, there's been rain. Us British love the weather, so I'm going to use a suitable weather analogy to explain the last three months. *Sips on a cup of Earl Grey from a quintessentially English tea cup with extended pinkie to add to British-ness*

When I reference not having the sunshine without the rain, the rain represents the ridiculous amount of tears which have rained down my many full faces of make-up -make-up which I've been assured by countless brands that if you pay £35 for a mascara, it's definitely not moving. Well, let me tell you, make-up brands TELL LIES.

So this rain -it's not the kind of drizzle which gives my hair an annoying, delicate wirey aura after being caught in it. Not the kind of hot monsoon storms I experienced in Thailand, where I discovered wearing white linen trousers in a monsoon-prone country is a silly idea -I might as well have just paraded round in my knickers (and sometimes I did... *stares into space as she remembers times spent in Thailand as an irresponsible sixteen year old*...). I'm talking the relentless rain which you see on apocalyptic films, the kind which has clearly been 'convincingly' green-screened and which 'realistically' fills up a room thirty seconds after it starts, causing the main characters to struggle to break free, using an axe after losing the key, so that they can escape togeth- wait a minute, I'm referencing Titanic again aren't I...?

Yes, moving to a new city where you don't know many people has been harder than the time I tried to learn to play the Flute in a day, but balancing that ...with a long-distance relationship... well, there's no analogy or metaphor to cover it. It's just fucking hard 'n' shit.

Thankfully, the lucky boy in question is ridiculously patient, understanding ...and has a shed full of tools to distract him from his mental-girlfriend-of-late. Unfortunately, how it works though is that the more amazing he is, the more he came out with breath-takingly logical and reassuring advice, the more he represented perfection in terms of what a girl looks for in a boyfriend, thus creating 'moooovie love' -as Janice from Friends describes it, the more I wanted him to be here with me.

Also, there's the best friend. I'm talking the kind of best friends you get in chick-lit novels, who always says the right things, then makes the teary friend laugh, then takes her out to get drunk on cocktails until she's crying with joy because she's suddenly in a drunken state of euphoria where she 'loves everything' ...but has to close one eye to text and trips over her own feet.

So, with that combination, my boyfriend ...and my girlfriend dragged me through the twelve weeks of mud that has been my struggle, as I've settled further into my new life.

And my third assistant? Some of the amazing things I've done which have made living here worthwhile. Some of my favourite memories include watching the Royal Wedding with the boyfriend in Hyde Park then getting drunk on cider like the classy girl I am, the free football festival boyf and myself found when we had no money and went into London to sunbathe, my parents and brother and sister-in-law visiting me in London and getting the opportunity to show off my new home and take them to little spots I've found since being here, moving into my new place; beautifully central and ...all round beautiful, really, it allows me to spend entire days in the flat, content, with the balcony door open and the sun beating in whilst I do work and... last but not least, my biggest achievement to date.

Finally securing my own radio show in London.

It's why I've moved here. I would say I've been presenting for four years, but that only really accounts for the work I've done for radio stations. It doesn't really include the radio shows 'the best friend' and I used to make, age seven, from our bedrooms which we called 'North Lincs Radio' and which boasted a stunning, sung-out-of-tune jingle. It also doesn't include the horrifically embarrassing family film I 'presented', age twelve, which boyf recently had the pleasure of watching. I say he had the pleasure, because as I physically squirmed and wretched with embarrassment, he laughed so hard, he couldn't breathe and went slightly purple in the face. Excellent. Thankfully, he didn't end the relationship having seen it.

I've been working at Radio One at weekends for about two months, answering phones and finding guests and generally getting involved in any way I can. I work on Reggie's request show on Saturdays as well as The Surgery with Aled on a Sunday and I'm getting to the point now where I know what I'm doing, I'm working hard at it and, where the presenters take the mickey out of me, like Reggie did yesterday for my apparently 'rubbish' jamaican accent, which I protested. Ok, it may have sounded more ...Scottish than Jamaican, but they're two very similar sounding tongues.

But I've been hammering at trying to get my own show in London, something I can put work into, edit myself and can produce myself. An example of what I can do and what I love doing. Shoreditch Radio finally gave me a ten minute pilot audition, within which to 'prove myself' -that ten minutes of which included three songs. You do the Maths. It was a challenge, proving my presenting skills in what equated to about two minutes, but I succeeded and soon enough I'll be recording my first of hopefully many shows for them.

And so, as I sip on my wine on this fine Sunday evening whilst watching rubbish TV in the flat, having worked for about the last eight hours (ok, about six) on planning and researching 'the show', I can smile and take stock and think 'yeahh, it'll be reet'. And on top of that, I have a perfect boyfriend who's pretty damn perfect for me, I have the kind of best friends whom people are lucky to have for a few years before they move on and grow apart (we've been this close since we were five) and lastly, I'm happy living in London -ecstatic, in fact.

Unlike my one with boyf, it's definitely a relationship which has taken a while to perfect, but I can finally smile and say 'I Love London Town'.

C'est ce que j'aime à propos de Londres

In translation, this is what I love about London, an endless list of qualities my city has which I've whittled down to a few favourites.

Ok, so. I'm from Lincoln, England. A small city which is about as diverse as Victoria Beckhams' facial expressions. Londres, however, has a ridiculously vibrant demographic make up, it's well proper steeped in culture and stuff. When I first moved here at the end of February 2011, I had my BBC job as well as an extra evening job, working in one of Jamie Oliver's Italian restaurants. Of all the eighty-or-so staff there, I'd say a quarter were English. Working there, I learnt truckloads about Norway, Slovakia, Poland, Italy, Hungary, France, Indonesia... I could go on but I'm bored of naming countries.

Ey, I tell you what else, too -I've been re-learning my GCSE French for the last few weeks so that I can confidently converse with foreign visitors to Television Centre in other languages! I know! I inflicted my education in foreign jibber-jabber on the unsuspecting tourists today, in fact. I said: "Quand Madonna visite le ...building, elle demande une tres grande portrait ...of du pape dans le ...dressing room..."

Now a) yes, I know there are a few errors there, but cut me some slack, I never claimed I was Coco ruddy Chanel (only French person I could think of) ... (je suis desole, to any French readers) plus, I said the words 'building' and 'dressing room' with a French accent anyway. And b) Yes, Madonna really did ask for a lifesize portrait of the pope on her Rider when she visited us. Idiot.

Love of London no.1: London makes me want to travel.

Another thing I love about London -something which I think is often overlooked -is its inner city charm. Like... ok, for example, walking from the bus to the tube station last week on my way to work, I had to do a sudden panicky hop to avoid stepping in ...a nappy which was in the middle of the street. See? Inner shi-, sorry, city charm. Then there’s the city foxes which have decided they're invincible; I swear to God they're ridiculously bold and wonder the streets with more attitude than a tagged convict.

Love of London no.2: London is your typical slightly-gross capital city.

I love how packed the coffee-fragranced tube is every morning, discarded Metro newspapers everywhere accompanied by my daily anticipation to see who'll get stuck in the doors today. It’s brilliantly satisfying to watch. Granted, it’s also slightly cruel. Last week was the best I've seen so far; a tiny female Chinese tourist, back-pack on, ran full pelt towards the closing doors. Logic would tell her to maybe not run towards a rapidly narrowing gap, but apparently she couldn't wait; London's tourist attractions needed her now. She made it through the doors ...but her back-pack didn't. It was brilliant because she was so teeny, there was nothing she could do apart from scrunch up her tiny face and make these weird whiney noises which, quite frankly, sounded like some kind of mating call. Two businessmen had to work as a team to yank her out and as the doors snapped shut, her relief was expressed with another weird noise which sounded like a balloon being deflated. Or maybe a snake having an orgasm. I imagine.

Love of London no.3: London tourists –they’re everywhere!

And lastly, I love the spontaneity of London weekends. Everything's here so you can do anything –London really is your Oyster card. A few weeks ago, my boyfriend Joe and I decided to take it easy and go chill in Hyde Park for the day. Ok, I had no money and we were hanging. We stumbled across a packed park, full of yob- ...I mean, people... enjoying a free UEFA football festival which included an endless bar with a beer elevator (beers are lowered down to you from the twelve foot high bar. Unnecessary genius.), it also included a giant football for endless innuendos, loads of matches to watch and -more importantly –some ruddy sunshine!!! Another weekend involved going to the Southbank where there's a bar boat called Tattershall Castle (weird, seeing as in Lincolnshire there's a Tattershall castle... which is an actual castle. Not a boat claiming to be a castle) and Joe and I sat and drank Jack Daniels and watched the sky get darker and the London Eye get brighter. It was a gorgeous moment until Joe asked me how many dead bodies I thought there was in the Thames. Plausible question ...I guess. Or there's the day we went to Camden Town and had dodgy-as-hell food from the food market and just walked round, seeing the sights and avoiding the tattoo shops (Joe was tempted. I was not.). The Royal Wedding day was pretty amazing -Hyde Park being the setting again. We arrived in style (ie, late) and stole a flag off a tourist, stocked ourselves up with cider and pretended to be avid royalists whilst soaking up the atmosphere -a day I'll never forget. Just last week, I went to see Fleet Foxes play an intimate gig for Radio 2 as hosted by Jo Whiley –what an incredible band. So bloody talented! One band member played about eight instruments! In fact, sitting there surrounded by such musical wizardry, I felt glad that I’ve been deepening my bilingual...ness by re-learning my French, which made me feel less talentless. During a rapture of applause, I almost shouted ‘Tres bon! Encore!’ but thought better of it. I didn’t want to show off.

Love of London no.4: London lifestyle.

So yeah. In summary I fecking love it here. I could go on about my loves, but these are the summaries. Nappy-filled streets, ridiculous displays of tourism, foxes of the man-eating variety, foxes of the fleet instrument-playing variety and corpses in the Thames. What can I say, this is London.

Lets lay some foundations

Well, soon I'll have been a Landanah for three entire months. Good god, where has the time gone?!

...Actually, I'm saying that because I felt I should. In actual fact it feels like I've been here for fecking ages.

24 years old and I've been saying for the past four years 'I'd love to live in London', blah blah blah. Never thought I'd actually do it, did I? Had I have been writing this three days ago, I would've typed something along the lines of 'what an utter douche-bag I am...' as my next sentance, but actually, today's been a damned good day.

The mathematical ratio of positive days to not-so-perky days is probably about four to one at the moment I'd say. Four good days that is. Luckily, I have some imperitive tools to help one out which I'd recommend to anyone looking to move to London. These are as follows.

A) Wicked people. I'm surrounded by 'em. Joey, my boyfriend is fairly amazing on a pretty gargantuan scale. Hannah, my best friend; the reason I'm here (it's her fault, the bitch), is awesome also. Family. Although non have yet been to visit. I'd say in the three months (almost. Not that I'm counting) that I've lived here, Joe's probably visited ten times or so. I can't stop the boy, what can I say, I'd visit me if I was my boyfriend, I'm bloody adorable. Hannah's been down too, though just twice because she's saving up to go help others around the world, though that's her noble way of disguising the fact that she's 'doing one' so she can go get all cultured. My brother, on the other hand, openly admits he hates London and thinks 'it's shit'. Apparently, you can't go anywhere 'without having to take fourteen tubes'. He demonstrates said theory by asking on a regular basis 'how many tubes does it take to buy a pint of milk?' or '...how many tubes does it take to take out your rubbish?' My parents are due down soon too, though they wait until they have enough Tesco points to do it on the cheap. I'm wondering if this means the bundle they'll save, they'll re-invest in presents for me. I can't really use the whole 'to celebrate my new life!' line, anymore, can I? Three months?? (Well, not quite.)

B) A ruddy banging taste in music. Something which cannot be taught, unfortunately. It's something I was born with. So musically inclined am I, that my grandma remarked, upon seeing my scan picture, 'Look at those hands, they're pianists hands...'. True story. Now, ok. Fair enough, I can barely play the triangle and I'm not bad at wacking out 'River Deep, Mountain High' on Karaoke like I did one drunken, blurry night in Edinburgh a few years ago, but I really think music has been instilled in me like some kind of cosmic force. If I'm in a shitty mood, I'll blast up the Kings of Leon to ear-perforatingly-loud levels and all will blow over. If I feel reflective, The Stone Roses are winners. If I'm feeling summery, a mash-up Ministry album gets me excited for that one day when I'll eventually get to Ibiza and if I feel sad, Coldplay cheers me up -a band I find amazingly inspiring and beautiful. NOT a 'Dad band' like I hear a lot. (...My Dad loves Coldplay. Jeez Dad.) There's something I've realised though, there's definitely a musician trapped inside me. Not a euphemism, thanks. I mean that since moving here, I've noticed that I cannot listen to music I love without tapping or drumming or nodding or shaking my foot or something. I actually can't. I've tried. This geezer was watching me on the tube earlier today, fascinated by my one-woman body-band I had going on; foot tapping, fingers playing weird rhythms which I can somehow keep whilst doing other rhythms with my eyebrows or toes or bum cheeks (no, really) and so I stopped and looked out the window as we approached Bond Street -lots of distractions, oh good, I thought. No sooner had the doors slid shut again to move off, I was at it once more, nodding my head like Stevie Wonder on speed and tapping different rhythms with different hands. Maybe I'm the eighth wonder of the world. They'll call me 'Rhythm Rachel' and I'll busk. In silence. By cracking out my mental rhythms and earn millions. Maybe that can be plan B (another crackin musician).

C) A sense of determination to get through this initial period and come out the other side. Oh, I'm still doing my tools for survival in London in case you're lost. Ooh, don't get lost in London, it's a nightmare. That can be point D. But yeah. I'm here to pursue a job in the BBC and 'work my way up', so to speak. After four years of voluntary work in media around a full time degree or job, that's certainly making me want to stick this move the hell out. The thing is though, is making friends from scratch is a tricky business. I mean, for a start it's not gonna happen on public transport due to my weird ticking and fitting I do to music. And secondly, my best friends in the world are people I've known for time, there's history there. You can't get away with having a brief conversation with a stranger and then asking for their details. Believe me, I tried last week when I had a massage from a friend of a friend and after she was done rubbing me up in all the right ways, I said 'Ooh, lets stay in touch!' -Wrong crowd. Don't be overly friendly with someone you hardly know who's spent the last forty minutes caressing your oily body. Safe to say, we're not BFF's.

D) Don't get lost.

So yeahh, as Eva Cassidy once sung 'Time is a healer'. And as The Rolling Stones once sung 'Time is on my side'. And it's like the cast from The Rocky Horror Picture show once sung: 'Lets do the time warp again'.

Granted, the last example has little or no relevance. But the sentiment is there in all of them. I just need to give it some...