Moving back to London feels odd in several ways. Firstly because the 16 months I spent in Stockholm studying, aching of longing back, it’s as if they were a lie, a fragmented dream. Maybe I read it somewhere and didn’t actually experience it? Because that does happen to me you know, that I catch myself thinking I’ve experienced something when actually it was part of a novel I read years back. Like when you retell a story over and over to friends, because it just happens to be your killer story. But one little detail got altered somewhere around the first times you told it and now you can’t remember if that actually did happen. That’s how I feel about the year and a bit when I didn’t live here. Maybe I lied about it?
Secondly, being back in the life I put on hold feels odd as my objectives in leading it are completely different. Having a career path I’m somewhat climbing rather than skipping class to nanny or just fully devote my energy to discover new bars and places and exhibitions most days of the week. No more staying up until morning despite it being the middle of the week.
But it does happen occasionally. Like on Wednesday when Danielle invited me with to the Victoria, a pub in Dalston where I celebrated my birthday, to see her brother play with the band Slim Twig. It was freezing outside and my body was exhausted from work and my head told me I’d better be in bed, resting up for the next working day. But that pissed me off. Because what is my life if not late nights in dirty bars with ears ringing from standing too close to the stage and dying over somebody’s red patent leather boots and forgetting about any obligations? I hope I can leave room for spontaneity for a while longer.
Check out the band Slim Twig.