I have a feeling that I am pissed off with London. I never thought it would happen. I chose to move here, to fulfill a longterm ambition.
The reasons for living here are many - it's glamorous and cultural, I don't have to mix with people I don't want to, I can choose my friends, I don't have the neighbours prying into my business.
Get a grip - when do I ever do cultural things? Not frightfully interested - except for music. I don't really go out with friends very often, preferring to be with Jimmy. We don't go to glamorous places, preferring to go to restaurants and pubs, or, ocassionally to the cinema.
I loved the Outdoors Life on holiday. Walking and walking, being in boats - we failed to actually hire a self-driven boat. I enjoyed the Fort Bill fashion parade - the strutting of Berghaus and Regatta, the sneaky scutiny of footwear to ensure that it's suitable...for the pub. I feel most comfortable in walking boots and fleece. Who needs an umbrella when you have a kagoul. I love the ostentatious parading of walking poles. I like the feeling of sitting cosy and tired in a pub after a streneous mountain walk, looking round seeing other people the same - tangled hair, windswept faces, glowing eyes.
And I return to London and see the litter on the streets, the human detritus swilling in the drains, the losers looking only for their next fix, the fashion ratrace of the shallow rich and the sheeplike poor, the hatred and fear, the intimidation and dejection. The eating of junk and the mindless gym-going.
I'm tired of London, but hungry for life.
