Can’t get sick of London, no matter how I try. Thank god for my ability to sleep just about anywhere, including a cramped up space in the Economy class next to a really fat lady. On this note, I would like to add that I’m starting to really like being seated next to a fat person; they tolerate my snoring and bother to wake me up when the meals are being served.
Anyway, as I was saying, thank god for my nomadic ability for I was able to adjust my body to London’s time upon arrival.
Walked the dog with my aunt in the stunningly beautiful park, a residue left behind by Autumn. Followed the subterranean chasm of Doris Salcedo at the Turbine Hall in Tate Modern. Peeked into Louise Bourgeois‘ rooms. Feasted into my aunt’s juicy roasted chicken. Attended my conference organised by mad.co.uk. Lunched with the finest lady from BBC World Service one ought to respect. Met the famous OfficeRocker. Had my former colleague Jas and her boyfriend over for dinner. Was a blast. Waited up with my half-dead brain til midnight for my dearest cousin who was returning from Gothenburg, Sweden. Smoked with her in the garden in spite of the blistering cold. Just like good ol’ days. I wonder when I’ll next see my baby sis again. Went to the airport to catch my flight back. Made a mistake by staying out in the cold too long. Triggered off my asthma. Had to be wheeled through customs. How glamourous. It was scary. Part of me wished I didn’t take my Ventolin pills. Perhaps I wanted to die at that point. People do get tired of living sometimes. Does it make it suicide, I wonder. I guess I won’t know.
And here I am, back like I’ve never left. Harlow.