London
London is where strangers talk incessantly about the weather: how unbearably hot it is now and how cold it has been all year.
London is walking to Starbucks every morning through the tree-lined streets of Chelsea where we stay, in a pokey apartment with heavy drapes and a carpeted bathroom – who carpets a bathroom?
And in this heat!
London is where the gardens are glorious with pink petunias, purple pansies and orange hydrangeas – who knew that God made hydrangeas in orange?
And in this heat!
London is where strangers remind us that the city is not designed for this heat, and we can, but concur.
London is staying in Chelsea in a pokey apartment with heavy drapes and a carpeted bathroom...
euch – who carpets a bathroom?
And in this heat!
London is tears streaming down my face as I sit in the Young Vic watching Fun Home,
a big play about small lives. A play that does not so much transport me as it does root my being to this very spot in time.
London is where, instead of lighting candles on Friday night we go to the Portuguese club and watch beloved goddaughters perform their comedy routine, ‘Sibblings’ to a tough crowd. And they are perfect. They are so funny I almost pee on the plastic chair in the Portuguese club;
it seems even they are funnier than the Marx Brothers, these precious sisters of my soul.
London is where we run outside to catch the drama of the eclipse except, we find nothing but a grey moon obscured by a dusty sky. Which does not matter to me as I look at the faces of the people around me and they are beautiful. Best, beloved and beautiful.
Who knew people could be so beautiful?
And in this heat!
London is watching a big play about small lives. A play that does not so much transport me as it does root my very being to this moment in time.
London is when we are here and you are in New York. So far, so far away. It feels my heart might break from longing, but it doesn’t ’cause I talk to you. And also ’cause I have a strong heart. Who knew my heart could be so strong?
And in this heat!
London is where, on the night of the eclipse I turn and look at the faces of those around me and they are so beautiful, so best, beloved and beautiful.
London is where we sleep with three fans and still, we wake every night in a hot sweat while you are in New York where I hear there is a monsoon season while Athens burns and Cape Town only just puts out the drought – yet still, we have not learnt to live with care on this beautiful planet.
This hot, sticky, beautiful planet.
London is when it finally rains, puddles and drizzle and people looking far more comfortable within the confines of this particular discomfort.
London is taking my children to summer school at Oxford and being rescued by an old friend who feels like home when my heart is slightly unsettled and so far, so far away from home.
London is waving goodbye to the shiny, beautiful, best and beloved faces of my children.
London is where people talk about the weather: how unbearably hot it is now and how cold it was before.