London Calling

On weeks like this, when it rains for days and days, I miss London. There the sky was so steeled and heavy but despite the stereotype, it almost never rained. Not like this steady, 3 day pour that has the worms out on the pavement. The water has almost dissolved the dead squirrel that was almost perfect except for its mashed in skull, which has been out on the crosswalk in front of Valentine for a while now.

I am determined to have it be warm. I cannot help but think of how this time last year I was in Paris for a month, with my orange and purple lilies from the market on the table. It was warm and I wore skirts and a light jacket, and it was sunny almost every day. I was alone and lonely, but it was the best loneliness I've ever experience, I think. I went for walks by the river, bought books of poetry and earrings.

And then back to London, with the dirty buzz of the East End and those marvelous, marvelous people. I learned where to buy good garam masala and how to make a killer curry. Papaya was the cheapest fruit. I will never forget them, all of our nights, reading when we felt like reading, becoming experts at cooking pasta because it was 49p from the shop around the corner, one pound red beer from the school pub, which I can find nowhere else. (Cider, beer, topped off with red currant syrup?) In our Literary Criticism class, reading Lucky Jim, Prof. Pritchard asked us if we'd ever known Dixon's predicament of having too much beer. Yes. Yes, I do.