Tired of London - Tired of Life

Something very special happens to England in general, London in particular when the sun comes out. It is simply glorious. The grass looks greener, the smell of it, newly mown, conveys the sweet smell of summer to our senses. Young woman, looking fresh, smelling delectable, demonstrate the success of all those diets and exercise programs, as they dress with the confidence only the young, beautiful and self possessed can rent during their younger years. How many of these young beauties listen to love songs on their MP3 players, as they sigh and sip from their endless bottles of branded water.

Men are more purposeful when the day puts on such a show, a swagger to their step. Marching off to do commercial battle, scoring a deal, making more money, all whilst pretending not to smile too broadly as they think of the BBQ to prepare, the beer and wine to drink.

Happy children scamper and gambol, properly not aware of the problems that later life might burden them with. Careful not to stray too far from mum, but far enough away to keep a careful eye on their every move.

There’s something about the comfortably off I see walking by. They might have the same problems as everyone else, but they have more choices. Their smiles are a little more self-assured. Everything in their lives seems to have the bumps ironed out of their path. Even their faces are a bit too smooth.

Even the buildings seem brighter and cleaner, their frontage winking a broad greeting to each passer by. The doormen’s surly scowls modified to broad grins behind their dark sunglasses.

Yes, this old town might be one of the most expensive on the planet, and perhaps there’s still too much traffic for us to breathe as freely as we’d prefer, but there isn’t a better city for art, museums, galleries, culture or food. They might boast of these things elsewhere, but they all secretly share the knowledge that here, in this place, at this time, they come second. How long this might last, none of us can know, but for this blink of our historical eye, let’s enjoy this magic Isle.

Such is London today; maybe the best place to be in the World.

Then, because it’s England, and I was enjoying myself all too much, waxing just a bit too lyrical, down came the rain. Big soft globs of water made their way direct from heaven onto my head, splish, splosh, splash, no pitter patter here, determined to make their presence felt. But however much the deluge wanted to blemish my day I had the imprint of its previous glory seared behind my eyelids, safe in my memory, ready to be reviewed whenever the wetness marginalized the memory. I don’t care about your rain, I have your sunshine all stored up.