London. It just exhausts me. Last night I found myself drenched, numb, bone tired and hating on the whole transport system.
And all I could think about – to the point that I almost burst into tears as I stood at south ken tube staring at macaroons in the window of Paul that cost £3.30 each – was the golden Californian sunshine, sitting on a beach with warm sand trailing through my fingers, ordering an entire succulent spicy pig for less money than a sugary French treat and the fact I never ever ever feel an ounce of cold in Bali unless I’m standing underneath an air conditioning unit naked having just showered in cold water. The exhaustion I was feeling, the kind that makes you pass out whilst standing upright holding onto a rail on a tube train, is not something I am able to cope with anymore. My friend found me drizzled upon and unhappy, wrapped me in her scarf and stuffed a barocca in my mouth immediately. It wasn’t a macaroon but hey. Probably better at halting death.
I think if you live in London for a time you adapt, because I used to do it daily and yeah, I was tired, but now I can’t even manage to hop about London for half a day without feeling like I need to put myself into a coma for a month on an IV drip of two parts valium one part vodka to recover.
The only way I shall ever be able to live in London again is if I rent a flat in W1, have my own driver, and drawers full of cashmere lined underwear.
Which leads me to equate London with a disease to which you build up immunity. And if you’re away from it for too long your immunity decreases and you come back and you’re decimated in seconds. Unless you have a driver and cashmere lined underwear which act like barriers through which the virus can’t penetrate.
There, that’s my thoughts on London.