Cadbury's chocolate eggs spring to mind. Reading the Sunday Times in a hostel lounge. The underground trains, thundering out of ancient tunnels like prehistoric worms (or like Jeff in Men in Black II). The abomination of Karl Marx's huge head in the romantic cemetery of Highgate.
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| Highgate cemetery |
The thunder and lightning that surrounded Big Ben that day (and hail, and sun, and pissing rain, and some snow in the mix). The tame squirrels in the parks. The tourists. All the normal people on the Tube. The schoolboys, the suits, the dogs, the guy with his upside-down tie. The floating aliens in Trafalgar Square. The thief being chased through the back streets of Soho. The politeness and the offers of help. The sunny streets of Notting Hill where we couldn't agree on a lunch place. Brent Cross, the suburb made for entertainment but not for the crossing of streets. My hostel room-mate who brushed her teeth for half an hour at midnight.
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| Floating alien |
The bus taking its sweet time winding through the streets towards Hampstead. The flowers. The red Lamborghini almost running me over on its way to the Gumball 3000. The flat white. Our hysterical giggling on the double-decker buses. The breakfast fry-up with an old friend not seen for twelve years. The barbed wire fence at the back of Buckingham Palace. The black-headed gull eggs sold in Harrods (why would anybody want them?). The Buddhist monk who wanted my donation in exchange for the chance to write "peace" in his little notebook. The fish and chips in Soho. The heated debate about customer service and minimum wage in the bustle of a bank holiday on Oxford Street. The lonely wine picnic outside Kensington Palace. The conference with twelve thousand women. The laughing bus driver.
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| Buckingham P. and the threatening skies |
Every time I come home from London, I'm a little bit more polite and accommodating to others. And a little more amazed.
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