Gettin High on the Big Smoke

Driving over London Bridge last night I catch my breath. Even after a life lived more in London than elsewhere, it gets me. The bridges regin over the Thames, Tower my Queen.
The glass buildings intermingle comfortably with those that showcase the proud architecture of generations past. I exhale, remember that breathing is important.

I head down the Mile End Road this morning. Eyes are fresh from elsewhere I note the new. A funky see through building by Sainsburys, blue and green hues showcasing the elevators within. A shop called Arabian Nights, an upmarket version of the sari shops that litter the neighborhood. The kind of place I could see Cherie Blair shopping before Muslim Festival nights. I pop in, savour the smooth silk scarves as they slide through my fingers. Marvel at the craftswomenship that produced such delicate beading, get the cut glass embedded in fabric without the lump of thread and rouching that would surely accompany, were I to attempt it. This isn't self deprecation, as those who sat in the needlework classes, where I alone turned a skirt into pantaloons by mixing up the seams, will testify.

I remember why I love the unreconstructed East End men. There's no coquettry, no West London mild mannered charm. If they like your look they let you know, whether by beeping horns, shouting out of windows or whilstling appraisingly as you pass. Faded with my youth the days I would retort 'I am not your darling' with righteous indignation. Now I think, 'Ok it's not smooth, but it puts a spring in my step and makes me lift my head with confidence, thanks boys.'

I am flooded by memories, My house, sitting pretty back from the main road, a place I was far from happy yet am now able to wink at as I meander past. Sitting by Ailsa's bed in the Royal London hospital. Nipping over the road for Pizza Hut supplies when they forget to feed her for the second morning running. We giggle now, but I walk past remembering it wasn't always so.

I notice Foster's Phallic Rocket, the gherkin to change all the damage McDonalds did to said pickle. I love it, want to wave at it, shout 'hello sexy' and burst into song. Instead I smile, think, 'fuck me, it's good to be home'.