Back to the city

I will always, deep down, belong lost and dirty fingernailed in some damp and distant field.

Holborn. Home?

The Blonde is back in town. After a two-year, caffeine-soaked, Caramac-stoked commuting craic, I have surrendered to the basement embrace of a tiny Holbornian womb, replete with a forty three year old chain-smoking chav with a Michael Jackson obsession and a seven month old Alsatian called Snatch. Natch.

There is something to be said for the purgatorial hours of solo train time; that dribbling, scribbling, daydreaming brain time; that tunnel-topped freedom from the tyranny of 3G. I already mourn the man at the station who looks like Mr Micawber and opens his morning orange with his teeth. And I will always, deep down, belong lost and dirty fingernailed in some damp and distant field.

But then I walk through London, rawly resident, and feel the rightness of a certain place at a certain time. The hungry, canny old city sees me coming, young and self-aggrandising, burning with wild surmise and gin; and she opens up before me like a gap-toothed, gold-toothed, sharp-toothed, grimly glorious grin.

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  • http://www.wethreecats.blogspot.com jackie morris

    When I was in my youth I lived for a short while in a flat in Balham and wandered the streets of London dragging a hopeful portfolio of drawings around publishing houses.
    The one thing I loved, apart from the infinite variety of faces, was the early evening twilight dark of streets with lights reflected on rain soaked pavements.
    But that seems like long ago and another life.