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Il Ritorno

4 Jun

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.