I love London – the atmosphere, the different cultures, the apparent distinction between rich and poor, the hustle, the bustle, the noise, the smell, the tube, the tourists, the 12% service charges … When I was younger I would have loved to have lived there, somewhere in deepest darkest Bethnal Green perhaps, or Hackney. I always mean to visit the places of my heritage – St Martin-in-the-Fields [where some of my paternal ancestors were baptised and/or married] and the roads surrounding Highgate Cemetery [where my maternal great-grandparents were raised]. These days I simply crave my solitude and space too much to envisage living there.
But to visit is nice. Whether I’m visiting St Paul’s with my nana at the age of seven, being engrossed in Oxford Street/student union bars/dopey gigs with The Eldest Brother as the Chinese were demonstrating in 1989, treating Mumsy to a trip on the London Eye for her sixtieth birthday, kissing strange men in Hyde Park in 2001, or meeting Susannah and Ashley [today] it’s all good and nice and pretty and wonderful. And Susannah and Ashley are pretty and nice and funny and shy and sweet and tired and tiring. And my feet ache. I want to see them again. Spend more time with them. Somewhere away from the hustle of London, away from the tourist trail. And I will, one day.
Oooh, I met some American’s.
I can count the number of American’s that I’ve met [and actually conversed with] on just the one hand. Some lass The Big Brother went out with back in the late Eighties [who came for tea and told me that Dexter Fletcher was putting on the American accent he had in Press Gang which made me argue with her] and a chap on the coach back from Prague two days after the attacks in New York. Now I’ve just doubled the number.
Tiredness consumes me. As does the tellybox.
please God bless the pope xxx Elsabeth