Every single day during my two weeks working in London I wake up when Daniel is standing in the morning haze, pulling a crisp t-shirt over his head. I sleepily lean over the wooden beam that’s cutting his room in half, kissing him goodbye before pulling the duvet over my head. But I never fall back asleep. I want to wake up instantly, as I know that I get to fill my days with exactly whatever I feel like.
By nine I am downstairs in bare legs opening my laptop, putting on this playlist and starting to work whilst eating breakfast. The hours slip past me with the sweeping of the sun. The windows are all open and between coffee refills and having to spy on the people shouting on the street I let out some sort of new age sigh, blessing the fucking solitude! For the first time since last summer I get to spend time with only myself and my words and the Internet. One day it even get so far as my practising yoga to a youtube video… Lol who am I?
I don’t get nearly as much work done as I could because every day a friend or two pop by between shifts to keep me busier with their intrigues which no doubt a lot more juicy than doing work. Suddenly (I’m seriously contemplating the hours between 2pm and 5pm to be a lot shorter than the rest), it is 6pm and Daniel comes home on his bike.
On the Tuesday night it is unreasonably warm and it feels impossible to let that go to waste in front of Netflix. So Daniel takes my hand and brings me to the pub the Windsor Castle in Clapton to sit outside in their beer garden.
There they have fairy lights glistening all along the brick walls and cats sleeping in the worn Chesterfield sofas.
We text our friends also living in Clapton and ask them to come drink ales with us! It isn’t long before they join and we all squeeze in around a table talking about everything London. A tip on fitting in for you who are moving to London – learn to complain and brag about your worst housing stories like expensive rent, horrendous flatmates and any kind of infestation. You’ll be a success! Then we moved onto planning every gig we want to attend this summer, stealing cigarettes from our neighbours and whether or not to dump somebody who’s promised to help you move.
When we walk home at midnight it’s not even cold. The morning after will be an exception to my not being able to sleep in, because apparently after turning 23 you feel rubbish after three beers.
From the same trip: