The City is like that man you love.
You know he snores in bed, jiggles a finger in his ear and chews much too loudly for your Nana-raised ways.
He won’t clip his toenails until you gift-wrap the cutter in raw silk and slip on a mini bow-tie from Harrods.
He takes immense pleasure in playing a specially designed spot-the-socks-in-every-corner game, put together for the benefit of your aching back and myopic eyes.
And when plans change, the readers of this blog will know before you do.
***
And then you turn around to spot a certain pair of melt-me-now eyes perched above a goatee perched on a six-foot frame that supports the Cutest. Ass. Ever.
And you have to suck your breath in and wonder how you got so obscenely lucky.
London was a dream.
My happiest one yet.
London was a rabbit hole.
One I’m loth to emerge from.
But this City, like that man, is
mine,
mine,
mine.
Vox populi