Falling into the gap
I may have forgotten the Krispy Kremes, but here I am, returneth from the great capital.
And great it was indeed, what with me conquering the big bad tube system early on, all on my lonesome, without breaking down major-ly. I refrained from slumping onto my suitcase sobbing at Euston (arriving from Stoke), surrounded by a tide of people all looking fixedly at the tiles whilst running in every possibly direction like people set on fire. Oh no. I did not do that. There was some leg shaking, I admit, and some palm-sweating, but I did not give up.
And what about London itself?
There are a million thoughts buzzing around my head right now - like bees drunk on pollen - but only a few I could possibly recall right now, so late at night and having had so little sleep.
What about how quick everyone moves? How they walk like that, with their heads down, as if there aren't enough hours in the day to be able to cut some slack, not at any point, not even to stroll leisurely. How they grab any second they can get to read; how they fling open their papers sitting down on the tube, hang onto the handrails on the tube itself with heads bowed deep into the broken spine of a book, walk over zebra crossings completely absorbed in some fictional world whilst simultaneously very much aware of the real one. I can't do that. I found it hard to listen to music and read at the same time on the train back today, each song loaded down too heavily for there to be space in my head for written words.
(Like trying to save an ice cube from the cold.)
How about meeting Jules? THE Jules, Jules-from-India, Jules-who-refused-me-and-Joe-a-photo? Jules, who could have been a thirty year old balding man, but thankfully wasn't (rather some gorgeous girl with dark, thick curls, amazing eyelashes and a very contagious smile). Jules who could have killed me for never having read Neil Gaiman, but didn’t. JULES! Jules who was so cruelly snatched away after just one day of amazingness in Canary Wharf, leaving the three of us gutted but promising interrailing next summer. Don't look at me! she said when we’d looked for too long that first time, standing in a grey corner outside the station.
(Cigarettes and sun and bookshops and wandering around Canary Wharf aimlessly.)
In some park, we dared Joe to do a forward roll right there on the immaculate grass in front of all those people. Which he did. We filmed. We almost died of laughter when he tried to get back up with what little dignity he had left, before stumbling again, falling into the camera.
(Harold and Maud back at the flat. Flapping. Photos on the grass, and I dare you to ask for directions with an Italian accent, to wear those rose-tinted glasses all the way to the pub.)
The time not spent at the hotel, accumulating bruises and eating peanut butter from the jar with a plastic spoon, having my lemon drizzle cake admired and staring aghast at our door on hearing the rattle of a key in our lock (wrong room, wrong key, wrong person), the time not spent falling into the gap, we explored London. Aimlessly for the most part, we walked from Covent Garden to Leicester Square to St. James’ park, where I pressed my nose into the grass and inhaled, regretted it when the sneezing kicked in. Saw faces and animals in clouds, unwittingly killed a spider lost down my the front of my bra. Sat on top of a red double-decker tour bus with the sun in our faces, swayed in the isle of a tour boat on the Thames (said to rhyme with ‘cleanse’, not ‘cranes’!).
(My hands in Sean Connery's handprints, captured on camera just for my mother. Big Ben, Big Issue sellers, London Dungeons with a suitcase. I’m moving in, I said, and the guy in the eyeliner laughed and shouted, she’s moving in! to his colleague. Small cinema screen near the handprints – I think you’ve dropped something. Oh really?)
So now what? I’m back in Stoke, an exam and a month of college to go. Everything here is the same; hasn’t changed a bit in the five days I’ve been away, which feels somehow wrong. Five days does not sound like a long time, but right there, nose pressed into the grass, unstoppable lyrics rolling through my head (Where we are seems to be|As far as an eternity.), five days felt like two months compressed into not-very-many hours.
Onwards and upwards, I’m telling myself.
It’s not working, not yet, not for a while.
At least I have a mirror here, at home.
And an oven.
And tea.
And great it was indeed, what with me conquering the big bad tube system early on, all on my lonesome, without breaking down major-ly. I refrained from slumping onto my suitcase sobbing at Euston (arriving from Stoke), surrounded by a tide of people all looking fixedly at the tiles whilst running in every possibly direction like people set on fire. Oh no. I did not do that. There was some leg shaking, I admit, and some palm-sweating, but I did not give up.
And what about London itself?
There are a million thoughts buzzing around my head right now - like bees drunk on pollen - but only a few I could possibly recall right now, so late at night and having had so little sleep.
What about how quick everyone moves? How they walk like that, with their heads down, as if there aren't enough hours in the day to be able to cut some slack, not at any point, not even to stroll leisurely. How they grab any second they can get to read; how they fling open their papers sitting down on the tube, hang onto the handrails on the tube itself with heads bowed deep into the broken spine of a book, walk over zebra crossings completely absorbed in some fictional world whilst simultaneously very much aware of the real one. I can't do that. I found it hard to listen to music and read at the same time on the train back today, each song loaded down too heavily for there to be space in my head for written words.
(Like trying to save an ice cube from the cold.)
How about meeting Jules? THE Jules, Jules-from-India, Jules-who-refused-me-and-Joe-a-photo? Jules, who could have been a thirty year old balding man, but thankfully wasn't (rather some gorgeous girl with dark, thick curls, amazing eyelashes and a very contagious smile). Jules who could have killed me for never having read Neil Gaiman, but didn’t. JULES! Jules who was so cruelly snatched away after just one day of amazingness in Canary Wharf, leaving the three of us gutted but promising interrailing next summer. Don't look at me! she said when we’d looked for too long that first time, standing in a grey corner outside the station.
(Cigarettes and sun and bookshops and wandering around Canary Wharf aimlessly.)
In some park, we dared Joe to do a forward roll right there on the immaculate grass in front of all those people. Which he did. We filmed. We almost died of laughter when he tried to get back up with what little dignity he had left, before stumbling again, falling into the camera.
(Harold and Maud back at the flat. Flapping. Photos on the grass, and I dare you to ask for directions with an Italian accent, to wear those rose-tinted glasses all the way to the pub.)
The time not spent at the hotel, accumulating bruises and eating peanut butter from the jar with a plastic spoon, having my lemon drizzle cake admired and staring aghast at our door on hearing the rattle of a key in our lock (wrong room, wrong key, wrong person), the time not spent falling into the gap, we explored London. Aimlessly for the most part, we walked from Covent Garden to Leicester Square to St. James’ park, where I pressed my nose into the grass and inhaled, regretted it when the sneezing kicked in. Saw faces and animals in clouds, unwittingly killed a spider lost down my the front of my bra. Sat on top of a red double-decker tour bus with the sun in our faces, swayed in the isle of a tour boat on the Thames (said to rhyme with ‘cleanse’, not ‘cranes’!).
(My hands in Sean Connery's handprints, captured on camera just for my mother. Big Ben, Big Issue sellers, London Dungeons with a suitcase. I’m moving in, I said, and the guy in the eyeliner laughed and shouted, she’s moving in! to his colleague. Small cinema screen near the handprints – I think you’ve dropped something. Oh really?)
So now what? I’m back in Stoke, an exam and a month of college to go. Everything here is the same; hasn’t changed a bit in the five days I’ve been away, which feels somehow wrong. Five days does not sound like a long time, but right there, nose pressed into the grass, unstoppable lyrics rolling through my head (Where we are seems to be|As far as an eternity.), five days felt like two months compressed into not-very-many hours.
Onwards and upwards, I’m telling myself.
It’s not working, not yet, not for a while.
At least I have a mirror here, at home.
And an oven.
And tea.
kiwiqueen - 12. Jun, 01:49
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