Friendly reminder of why I love London

I wanted to live here most of my life. I wanted to live here, or somewhere in Scotland or in Ireland, because I was a confused girl. I still want to live everywhere and see everything and fall in love with places and buildings and various methods of dealing weed.

But a week ago, I was reminded why I love London so much. Life has a funny way of working that way. You see, I was on the verge of questioning everything and everyone and damning it all to Hell. I have this innate attitude to just run away from things when I no longer like them. Kind of like why I don’t date. I get annoyed, or bored, or scared, and I just want to leave it all and fuck off.

Last Wednesday, when I realised it was too late to do my assignment, and I was too restless to do it, anyway, Emerald had the beautiful idea to go buy pants. It is what it is. So, Westfield. In rush hour. Changing at Canning Town. Fuck me, right?

In the sea of people, all mindless, tired, equally as annoyed as I was, we dragged our feet with the sole purpose of getting the fuck on a Jubilee line train and “come on already, damn it all to fuck!”

The actual conversation went along the lines of:

“Emerald, why the fuck did you decide to go Westfield in the middle of fucking rush hour? You know I fucking hate people.”

This man, possibly in his fifties (maybe attractive), chuckled and I turned to look at him, smiling in recognition. It was one of those bonding moments when you just agree with a random stranger. The kind of bond you make when you’re waiting in Costa and some rude little bitch cuts you off and screams she wanted skimmed crap whatever, climbs on top of you and possibly lets her dick bob on your forehead on the way to a fight. And you look at the stranger next to you, whose jaw is locked and whose eyes are rolling. And you know. That strangers know. You’re on the same wavelenght. (Celestial or not, whee Supernatural reference!)

I digress.

Emerald was a step lower than I was (and still fucking taller than the fucking Shard, it’s ridiculous really), and she sighed, annoyed with me, the people, the world, men, dicks and everything really. So she tried. She really did. She actually got halfway through saying, “I’m all out of fucks to give.” But I let her get four words out before starting to sing-yell (syell?), in a particularly non flattering voice:


And then something amazing happened. Something that made my day, and the following day, and every moment I feel down or miserable.

The man from earlier, the one I shared a profound and very spiritual rush hour related bond with, starting singing as well. Just like that. He led me lead, bless him, probably because of my youth, or my passion. He was my second voice for the entirety of four lines we belted out together. I turned to look at him as we walked down the stairs, and he was smiling. I was smiling. Emerald was laughing, and if nothing else, it made me happier than I’d been in a long time.

It definitely made me blush for the first time in probably more than four years.

It made me laugh and feel bubbly inside because a complete stranger bonded with me and sang with me and I don’t want punctuation to hinder this sentence at all.

It might look childish. It could very well be, but I don’t give a fuck. I spent the next couple of hours just grinning like an idiot because someone was kind, and also because I made someone smile. I have this naive idea that he went home to his wife or husband or mistress or children or dog or whatever, and told them this random girl in Canning Town sang Air Supply and he joined in. And that he was happy.

I fucking love London, even if just because a man sang “All out of love” with me.


(Also, dicks.)

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *