Into the eye

It’s one hour before Hartley goes to bed and then this domestic inmate is going out for an evening, on a date, with herself. Earlier, while Bruce and Hartley were in the West End reading comics, I did a quick blitz of the flat, opening the window for a bit of air. It’s mighty gusty out there but it looks worse than it is. As the boys returned home, I left to grab my first gingerbread latte of the season, and to purchase some reasonably priced junk food for the cinema later. The citizens of Muswell Hill were in a tizz, stockpiling fresh produce like the end of the world was nigh and nobody seemed to have a handle on what they were doing, including the frazzled baristas who made my latte.

On my way home, I shed the gloves and woolen beret (my only extravagance from our trip to Paris, bought in a shop at the train station like a true tourist) as it was windy but not at all cold. Throw a bit of rain or snow into the equation and you’d have something to worry about definitely, but there’s something exciting about venturing out into dramatic weather that’s all bark and no bite. That said, I do plan to steer clear of any dodgy looking fixtures, as on my way to the shops I noticed an entire doorway lying flat across the path amidst portions of the brick wall to which it was once attached. That doorway always did look a little sorry for itself, though, and maybe this is just the kick in the pants that agent or landlord needs to fix it properly for those poor tenants.

Initially I was going to grab some dinner and a drink at the pub around the corner (the restaurant there boasts some of the best Thai Food in North London) and maybe read a bit of my new book, but the film I’m seeing starts earlier than I thought, so it looks like I’ll be having steak or maybe coq au vin at the establishment directly opposite the cinema. You could do worse on a stormy night in London, I guess.

Hibernation

I’ve been talking to a good friend from back home and it’s very late now but I can’t sleep because it’s snowing, and the snow is sticking to London, and it all feels magical somehow. Life, I mean, but the snow too.

Last year it finally snowed in April and in some ways it was a greater slight than no snow at all. But here it is - snow in October, just like when I was a kid and hoped very hard that it wouldn’t come until after Halloween, because then I’d have to wear a coat over my costume (some kids wore their jackets underneath, which was worse). It almost always snowed before Halloween when I was growing up.

It took a very long time for me to understand the clemency inherent in winter’s final say - this blanket statement that could take all night, but which unified every city block, tore up every disjointed summer thought and replaced it with an endless expanse of fresh parchment and the open invitation to start over.

Rain can have London, but I will always belong to snow.