There are times where it gets a little frantic. This past ten days, it’s felt as though half of Paris has descended on to the streets. The local economy might not just survive but even thrive in the coming months. Parisians see eating out as a holy rite.
Its merciless, this disease. Worse still, it’s discriminatory, exposing existing fault-lines across society.
Happening upon Wilmington Square with its lone dog walkers, and Lloyd Square with its jabbing pair of boxers, made me reflect why London is so dear to me.
There’s an egg timer hanging over each and every one of us. I don’t want to passively wait and watch the grains of sand.
I can walk for hours through surprise city squares. There’s the gems I mentally store away for future visits: the Horniman’s museum and gardens, and there’s Charles Dickens’ house, not far from Great Ormond Street – how come I’ve never visited? There’s the new Everyman at King’s Cross – when will it be safe to visit? Questions that enjoyably buzz around my head.
London provides a familiar welcome home. It’s not necessarily cheery. I’m not talking about a warm cuddle or a reassuring back-rub. It feels more like I’m being greeted by a nonchalant wave