This story has two beginnings. In one, I travel, alone, to London, having finished high school a couple of months earlier. I remember, before I left, I was talking to someone about our Plans for Next Year (capitalised, oh yes) and he said, “Ah yes, London — I hear it's calling.” That phrasing stuck with me. That anecdote doesn't really fit in here but I needed to explain the title.
Anyway, in the other story Instagram stops letting me into my account and I have to save all my pictures to get them printed, you know, sometime.
I don't regret my decision to answer that particular call, but I really have to say that, on the whole, this year's been a bit of a drag. Once the novelty of a new town wore off and the drudgery of a terrible job with terrible pay set in (twice, actually, since I removed to Edinburgh at the end of summer to start again — that's another story!) it became borderline impossible to go out and experience the wonders of London when I had no money and only really wanted to lie in bed and watch Netflix and eat the paninis I'd swiped from work.
It was sad.
But nostalgia and Instagram are kind, and as a (very very brief) return to London looms charmingly, I can't help but revisit the good times I enjoyed (within an extremely limited colour palette, apparently).
I mean, I found the resting place of a literary god…
Sat front-and-centre at the Book of Mormon (for £20!)…
And loitered in gutters so posh they had these butted out in them.
I used to blame London for the miserable time I spent there, but that isn't really fair. Who am I trying to kid? London is amazing. It redefines vibrant. My stay was rubbish but even it had its points. At this point, I'd be lying if I said I could wait.