Londonward

I wrote what was in my opinion a sufficiently official-sounding and thorough Notice to Quit (for which there are next to no examples available for free online) on behalf of our household, and now we need to find a nice place to stay before the end of May. Not only will I have exams and coursework to worry about, but I’ll need to do my bit about moving house as well.
I’d prefer if the new place had:

• Non-leaky roof
• No mold or damp
• Reasonable insulation
• Communal space
• Decent kitchen
• Phone line

Incidentally, these are all things the current place lacks. Or has, as the case may be.

Good transport links and a rent under £100 per week per bedroom, please. Got any bright ideas?

Laying down on the grass of Kew Gardens, really stretched out and relaxed in the sun, felt so extremely good I don’t wonder why lawyers and other Suits do it, looking like dead, limp bodies strewn down in parks.

More about them later, I’m sure.

I’ve written and thought a fair bit about what makes me feel like I really live in London. Most of the time it doesn’t feel special at all - it’s a big city that I happen to live in and have adapted to.

It feels special pretty much only when I’m showing it to other people. Showing friends around and having them gawk at the things that the city has to offer as well as appreciating my anecdotes and accumulated (mostly trivial) local knowledge has me all giddy. It’s like I’m seeing London through their eyes, and it makes sense to me in new ways. It’s great, and I’ll gladly do more of it. It makes me feel like I really know something, that I have a feel of the pulse of the place in a way. That must be a factor in Susanna’s photography of London as well - in showing it to other people she understands it better herself.

In other news, spring is here in earnest. It’s warm and sunny and I’m feeling optimistic about everything in general. I’m on easter break, got a big smile on my face and loud music playing in my headphones. Loving it.

Two girls climb onto the top deck of the 3 am night bus. One has long, mid-parted blonde hair and a big painted butterfly on her cheek, the other has black hair and a leather jacket. They sit behind us. As they do, the blonde one exclaims, “Praise Omnia! Hail Omnia! Omnia has not been very kind to me recently. I have not had good luck with her. Omnia is the goddess of public transport.”

The other girl possibly mutters something, but I miss what it was. In any case, it doesn’t matter.

“That’s the beautiful thing about goddesses. If you need something, just give her a name and ask for help. I just made her up, I took the name from Omnibus.”

“Really?” asks the other, slightly hesitant, disbelieving.

“Oh yes! They are everywhere, there is a goddess of everything. Cloaca is the goddess of sewers, if you ever need her help.”

“So… is there a goddess for paperwork?”

“There must be. A different one depending on what you need to get done, for sure. Like, a procedure, or something.”