limehouse issue #1

Limehouse

Austerity Writes Back

ISSUE ONE SPRING 2012

Limehouse

Austerity Writes Back

4 emily foster/
INTROduction 5 sophia blackwell/
my affair with
chick-lit

13 photo story/
the end of north
morgan
20 north morgan/
highlights of
miserable lives

27 emily foster/
graphic writing 33 bobby nayyar/
love & business

emily foster

introduction

Chick lit, suicide, delusional memories, difficulties in
writing, and hapless love are probably the things you
are thinking about right now, as we emerge into what
4 / Limehouse / Issue One Spring 2012 / Emily Foster / Introduction

promises to be a glorious spring. This is lucky as these
are the subjects of the first ever issue of limehouse
magazine: a showcase of brand new writing from our
leading authors Sophia Blackwell and North Morgan,
and the Limehouse team of Bobby Nayyar, and me.

Austerity Writes Back is the theme for this issue, as
we have now published three debut novels, each of
them written during this recession. Our next issue,
coming this autumn, will be on something altogether
different: poker.

Enjoy!

5 / Limehouse / Issue One Spring 2012 / Author / Title

sophia blackwell

my affair with chick-lit

a couple of years ago,
my ex and i went to see
a streetcar named desire
6 / Limehouse / Issue One Spring 2012 / Sophia Blackwell / My Affair with Chick-Lit

at the donmar.
Our breakup was something like five days old. We
weren’t eating or sleeping and, like Tennessee
Williams’ heroine, we were borderline crazy; but this
was Rachel Weisz we were talking about, and we
weren’t going to miss that.

Her portrayal of Blanche was perfect. At one point,
she cried out, ‘I don’t want realism – I want magic!’ I’d
seen this line swallowed before; I’d seen it delivered
straight. Not Rachel. She screamed it, and that
scream went right through my broken core, because
I had always chosen magic.

I always would, too, because life is hard. Life is
insomnia and celebrity diets and endless meetings,
bracketed by strangers on Tubes elbowing you in

the tits while playing tinny grime on smartphones.
There’s your partner doing that thing that makes you
wish you’d joined a nunnery and smug friends on
Facebook telling you everything they’ve achieved and
tabloid papers confirming just how horrendous it all
is, and if you get home from all that and you fancy a
bit of Dostoyevsky you’re a braver woman than I am.

I love chick-lit, or ‘commercial women’s fiction,’ as we
hardly ever call it in the trade. It’s like a big, warm,
pastel-coloured hug. Sassy friends, stereotypical
gays, shopping, handbags, cocktails, hitting a nadir
and springing back up like a monkey on a string, all
packaged in the pastels of patisserie cakes. If there’s
one ridiculous saying, it’s ‘Don’t judge a book by its
cover,’ – because if that cover is pink and has shoes
on it, you can bet I’ll be on it like Tony Soprano with
a lobster roll.

My novel, After My Own Heart, does not have a shoe
on it. It’s not even pink. But if you look at it, it should
be pretty obvious that it’s commercial women’s

fiction, and that’s not an accident, or because I can’t
do anything else. It’s because I like it.

My addiction started in my teens. I was staying in
London with my uncle; he had a copy of Marian Keyes’
first novel, Watermelon, (yes, he’s gay). At first, I
fought the terrible urges to read it– as a teenager I
had standards, or at least a mixture of pretension and
caffeine that looked a bit like them from a distance,
and it took me five tries to read Bridget Jones’ Diary
because I couldn’t find the verbs. Still, Marian Keyes
remains my first, and staunchest, chick-lit addiction.
What’s not to love about Marian? She’s funny, she’s
smart, she’s Irish, she gets free makeup and she
conquered depression with cake. You don’t see
William Styron doing that in Darkness Visible, do
you? No you don’t.

Of course, I’ve got other favourites. Jenny Colgan;
Lisa Jewell, who looks like a yummy mummy but writes
like a fallen angel; Sophie Kinsella, creator of Becky

Bloomwood the consumer wrecking-ball; Jane Green
and Adele Parks. Across the pond, my favourite is
Philadelphian Jennifer Weiner, whose debut novel
Good in Bed and its sequel Certain Girls are both
an eloquent defence of chick-lit and an exploration of
its limits.

Female novelists complain – and with good cause
– that male writers get away more easily with ‘thinly
disguised autobiography. Updike, Cheever, Yates and
Roth ripped out great bleeding chunks of their lives in
the name of fiction, but you never saw the New York
Times critics rolling their eyes and muttering, ‘God,
not his second divorce again; what a frickin’ girl.’

was she actually having
fun, and if so, did no

one try to stop her?
On top of that, there’s the unavoidable issue of
design, marketing and PR – how the books shout
out in visual shorthand from the sides of Tube tunnels
and the shelves of station bookshops. Finally, there’s
the question of intent – did the author want to write a
serious book, but had it clothed in chick-lit chinchilla
by cowardly editors? Did she set out to write a
romantic romp, but found darker themes creeping in?
Was she actually having fun, and if so, did no one try
to stop her?

One of the things I’ve loved about chick-lit is that,
despite Mr. Interchangeable waiting at the end, it’s all
about women finding – and rescuing – themselves.
Yes, there are weddings, and flowers, and macaroons,

but who doesn’t need a little escapism? ‘I don’t tell
the truth,’ admits Blanche DuBois, ‘I tell what ought
to be truth. And if that’s sinful, then let me be damned
for it.’ So, we publish – and sometimes, a little too
quickly, we’re damned.

This damnation isn’t just confined to chick-lit,
but spreads out to women’s literature in general.
Momentarily putting aside books with ‘Wedding,’
‘Manolo Blahniks,’ and, er, ‘Heart,’ in the title, even
‘serious,’ novels like Helen Dunmore’s The Siege and
Carol Shields’ Unless have been criticised for their
attention to the everyday, messy, feminine stuff, the
business of feeding your children and wondering
whether you still love your husband and spending
an afternoon looking for the perfect scarf for your
daughter – that makes critics squirm as they bang
into that pram in your hall. They don’t seem to get
that, while they’re just visiting, some of us – mainly
the ones with ovaries – have to live here.

Even in the rare cases when we choose not to, it’s
still hard to avoid. Our mothers ask us when we’re

getting married. We’re told that we’re selfish if we
want to hang onto our jobs in a cutthroat market; that
it’s wrong not to want children, or to have them too
late, whenever that is; that we can measure our worth
in how quickly we drop the pounds once we’ve had
the kids they nagged us about in the first place. So
how do you cope with that? Well, you pour yourself
a large Pinot Grigio and reach for one of chick-lit’s
cousins, mummy-lit. You know, that stuff written by
women who live in Notting Hill townhouses and only
give the kids organic Rice Krispies.

i’ve got to admit,
though, i don’t read
that. i’ve got some
standards.

13 / Limehouse / Issue One Spring 2012 / Photo Story / The End Of North Morgan

photo story

the end of north morgan

if it happened it might be
something like this.

NORTH MORGAN

HIGHLIGHTS OF MISERABLE LIVES

Memories are for
delusional people

who completely

lack self-awareness
and think that their
miserable lives are
worth remembering.

Childhood memories are the worst and there are very
22 / Limehouse / Issue One Spring 2012 / North Morgan / Highlights of Miserable Lives

few undertakings more tedious than listening to a
random 20-something trying to bond with a bunch of
other tiresome everymen his age, by reminiscing about
the cartoons they all used to watch when they were
little. Similarly – and in direct competition with reciting
one’s dreams for the most unbearable expression of
individualism – it is achingly dull to hear grown men go
on about loving parents, blissful childhood summers,
and secondary school mischief.

Luckily, even on those rare occasions that I suffer
clarity of mind due to accidentally under-dosing on
sedatives, there are just two singular, isolated incidents
that I remember from my childhood: the Arts & Crafts
incident and the Lift incident.

North Morgan

arts & crafts

We had A4-sized pieces of card with outlines of basic
shapes drawn on them. And we had tiny pieces of
coloured paper, each one no bigger than the nail on
my small finger. In bright colours, of course, because
I was 5 years old and small children are idiots with
underdeveloped brains, who can’t distinguish anything
unless it’s bright red or has a furry texture or moos like
a cow. We were supposed to put glue on the card and
stick the pieces of paper on, filling up the inside of
each shape. These were the only instructions we were
given, I swear.

I started taking each tiny piece of paper, cautiously
applying glue to the back of it and slowly placing it
flat on the card, each piece next to the previous one,
forming seamless lines both across and down. The
end result was geometrically perfect, presumably what
every sensible human would be inclined to achieve.

The next thing I remember is a destructive Greek
teacher standing over my head, scolding me for being

so careful and meticulous in my task, before proceeding
to sloppily apply some glue to my card and sprinkle the
tiny pieces of paper over it completely haphazardly. The
result was a mess. Some of the pieces were upside
down exposing their white underside, some were half-
drowning in glue with their dry parts seemingly trying
to escape upwards, some were outside the shape
borders and there were gaps everywhere. I wanted to
cry. And I hated that tramp.

Looking back at the incident, however, she wasn’t to
blame. She was Greek, that was all. Faithful to her tribe,
she was lazy, imprudent, irresponsible and thoughtless,
exhibiting all the key characteristics that, two and a
half decades later, would make Greece the plughole
that sank that European monetary union. In retrospect,
this was probably the day I instinctively decided to
distance myself from those people; a decision, which
reached its happy apex the day I acquired my British
passport at the age of 21.

North Morgan

the lift

The guy in the lift must have pressed the STOP button
to make it come to a halt between floors. He got his
dick out and a couple of minutes later I felt something
wet dripping down the side of my head. I’m still not sure
whether it was semen or urine. I was 7 years old and
at that point I wasn’t aware that anything else could
come out of your willy other than pee.

I didn’t even see the incident happen to be honest; I
guess I was looking on the floor during the whole time,
avoiding making eye contact with the stranger. I don’t
even know how we got out of there. Most likely my
brother, who was 10 at the time, pressed the alarm,
the guy panicked, started the lift again and bolted out
when we got to the next floor. We ran up the stairs to
the top of the building where my parents’ apartment
was and breathlessly blurted everything out to my mum.

She was there with some staff and her sister preparing

the house for a party she was hosting later in the
evening. That’s the reason why she hadn’t been the
one waiting for me at the entrance downstairs when
the school bus dropped me off, and she’d asked my
brother to go meet me instead. I’m unsure of what
the party was for. It might have been for my parents’
wedding anniversary, my mum’s birthday, something
like that. This was my day now, anyway.

My mum’s sister, always particularly boisterous, ran
out and tried to find the guy, but it was too late. My
mum took me to the bathroom and started vigorously
washing my hair. That’s when she told me the guy had
‘peed’ on me, but looking back on the whole thing, I’m
suspicious. Why would a paedophile get trapped in
a lift with two minors just to piss on them? Surely we
were sexier than that?

the transition i have
made from student
to employee in recent
months has been a

challenging one.

I expected it to be hard to find work; for this I was
prepared. Once I found my job however, I expected
everything else to fall into place. I thought I might join
a gym, and eat better. I might move out. I even thought
29 / Limehouse / Issue One Spring 2012 / Emily Foster / Graphic Writing

I would get out of my overdraft. I have done none of
these things. Most of all, after finally breaking out of
years of full-time education, I thought I would give my
brain a rest, and stop learning. Yup, I thought I knew
it all.

The most important thing I have learnt since leaving
university is that I will never stop learning. Take
writing for example. When we first decided to put
this magazine together I thought it would be a great
way to showcase our authors and ideas as a young,
driven, independent publishing house. Little did I
know I would be expected to contribute some of the
writing, rather than just the design (much more my
comfort zone).

we designers may know our ernst
keller from our steven heller -
Coming from the field of Graphic Design, most
would (safely) assume that writing is not my forté.

We Designers may know our Ernst Keller from our
Steven Heller – we just don’t know how to get it
down on paper. In my final year at university I spent
one memorable evening in my housemate’s room,
desperately correcting her dissertation the evening
before a deadline. Punctuation was practically
nonexistent, apart from full stops that appeared in the
middle of sentences. (‘...when he was a student at.
The Bauhaus...’). The structure occasionally deviated
from one endless paragraph into lots of tiny ones at
a time. Even she struggled to make sense of it. And
yes, English is her first language.

we just don’t know how to get it
down on paper

Today it has taken me about five hours to write just
over 500 words. Decent written skills are something
I’ve always tried to keep on top of – in fact, I wouldn’t
be here, in my current job, without them. I just think

people take you more seriously if you can string a
sentence or two together. But why do some designers
just ignore these essential skills? Is it because we’re
all so overly concerned with the visual? Are we all
this narrow minded, or is this just a prejudice we face,
that aesthetic talent must be compensated by poor
grammar and syntax? Is it even that important?

Well, I think it is important, and for me it’s down to
one thing: having options. Did you know Dylan Jones,
the Editor of GQ magazine, first trained in Graphic
Design and Photography at Central Saint Martins?

As a designer, I think I do OK. I really enjoyed my
degree. I like the work that I do. But nowadays it’s
likely I’ll be doing that work well past today’s standard
age of retirement. After I left university I found myself
thinking; is it what I want to do for the rest of my life?
Maybe. But my guess is, probably not. Discovering and
practicing other skills – like writing this article – and
utilizing them with what I already have is something I
enjoy. Who knows where it will take me in the future;
for now, though, I’m just happy to learn.


BOBBY NAYYAR

LOVE & BUSINESS

late last year i was
having a drink with
an attractive woman
who asked:
34 / Limehouse / Issue One Spring 2012 / Bobby Nayyar / Love & Business

‘Do you think that you can manage Limehouse Books
and have a relationship at the same time?’ Now if I
was a bit smarter I probably would have said, ‘Yes’.
But no, I wasn’t smart at all. The night, like life, rolled
on. The question, however remained stuck in my mind.

I looked back to where it all started. September
2009. I had just been unceremoniously dumped in
a Pizza Express in Shepherd’s Bush, before we had
even ordered, which came as quite a relief. The ex –
a yoga-practicing academic – listed the reasons why
she was breaking up with me. One of them was that
she didn’t like the way I ate. Though I had to give her
that – I do eat like a pig sometimes.

The break up came as I was working through the final
days of my notice and planning my as yet unnamed
publishing company. Looking back it was fair to say
that I had my mind firmly on work, not on any type

of relationship. My flat was a complete mess. I had
been sleeping on the floor, as I hadn’t ordered a bed.
I didn’t have an iron or a fridge. I have lost most of my
memories of that autumn and winter. It’s something I
can only describe as a cogent madness.

Thankfully the madness receded during the course
of 2010 – the reality of making books mixed with the
reality of making money descended like a curtain all
around me. My money ran out. I lost weight. I had
to accept that I needed a second job to pay for my
first job. Dating was the last thing on my mind. I did
manage to have the only one night stand I’ve ever
had. And I hated it.

In 2011, I had secured a second job, reduced the
number of titles we were publishing, and hired Emily
Foster. I finally had more time on my hands. The drink
with the attractive woman galvanized me to bring

balance into my life, i.e. to get laid. And then I met
Q. Yes, like a high profile and shocking court case,
I’m going to use a pseudonym in reference to this
woman. In fairness to her, I will only describe the start
and end of our time together. Our story began with
the glamour of ballet at the Royal Opera House and
ended around midnight at a bus stop in Limehouse.

In between I learned
the following:

1
DATING MAKES YOU STUPIDER
I’ve written a novel, drafted complex contracts, and
can communicate in several languages, but at one

point I spent an hour drafting a text message. In this
situation it pays to have a highly capable assistant,
which I do in Emily Foster. She also filled in as a
therapist, listening to the minutiae of my dates. I
should also point out that Eren Butler filled in as my
therapist for about two years. Maybe I should just
wind the business up and hire a therapist.

2
I AM EXPLICABLY POOR
The funny thing about running a business is that
people tend to think that you are loaded. When I

started out I had lofty dreams of being some sort of
publishing playboy, but I soon discovered that it was
all hard graft, sleepless nights with triumphs coming
at great personal cost. With Q, we followed the usual
dating trajectory, at first I was borderline spendthrift,
then things evened out and we shared everything
equally. After a couple of months, I kept inviting her
round to my place to cook dinner. She took it as a
casual ploy to get her into bed and refused. It wasn’t.
I just couldn’t bear to eat out at restaurants, because
to afford the food, I knew I’d have to go hungry for the
rest of the week. Plus it was a casual ploy to get her
into bed.

3
LOVE AND BUSINESS ARE
PRETTY MUCH THE SAME

Starting a business is a massive leap into the
unknown. In some ways I believe the yoga-practicing
academic broke up with me because she didn’t want
to watch me fall. And I did fall, but I also flew. In this
it is just like love. That moment when you stick your
neck out and take a risk. It is this recklessness that
can bring great rewards. Or in my case a break up at
a bus stop.

Next time I see the
attractive woman, I’m
just going to ask her
to marry me and be done
with it.

a limehouse books collaboration

EMILY
FOSTER / BOBBY
DESIGNER NAYYAR /
PUBLISHER

Limehouse Books

me. you. everyone.

limehouse issue #1

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