London is a place apart: everything changes and nothing does. It’s strange going back to a place you once loved and still do, but don’t really know any more. It’s like stepping into a river: it’s both the same and not the same.
It’s bittersweet, really: although I lived around London for five years, was married and separated here, lost my faith and ultimately changed my life here – I find I can’t slip into the groove I once knew. I know it like the back of my 25-year-old hand.
I forgot my way around bank station at night. I’ve stood on street corners not knowing my nearest good pub. I order coffee assuming I can pay by waving my wallet at a scanner. Then I get confused learning that, actually, now I can.
That’s ok: I’m not too proud to be a tourist for a couple of weeks. London isn’t my home right now – but it will be again.
The city of Pepys, Boswell and Dickens still lives alongside the Olympic stadium, boris bikes and longboard-riding hipsters. It’s fucking cool here.