Tired after London and it was a slog getting back with a cold half hour wait at East Croydon for the train home. I bought something resembling a pasty from a kiosk – the first white flour product I have eaten for months and months. Then when I got home I polished off the remains of a pizza Mr. Signs had eaten for his supper. No apparent ill effects, but I don’t intend making a habit of it as I have given up white flour products and sugar for the rest of my life. Apart from when I am in the desert of an East Croydon station platform and hungry. And Christmas, perhaps, but I have bought some sugar-free mince to make pies with (spelt, wholemeal).
Lovely and uplifting as it was to see the daughter and co performing (in a cavernous space underneath London Bridge station), and to catch up with my good writing friend whose book is to be published next year, going to the Smoke is always a bit of a shock to the system. I keep forgetting that this is now, and expecting to step off the train into a London that existed when I was (for some reason) in my twenties. It was my city then, I knew it better than the back of my hand and couldn’t have imagined that I would ever have wanted to live anywhere else. Now it feels alien, there are too many people everywhere and, quite simply, it is no longer my home.
I could go on and say something about roots and belonging and the diaspora condition of never really feeling oneself to be properly at home anywhere – but it is nearly midnight and if I go beyond that this post will turn into a pumpkin and it will be tomorrow with me stuck in yesterday. Not that it matters, but I'm inspired to have a bash at putting up a daily post. So, with minutes to spare, this is it.