And just like that it was over.
London of the activists. Of friends sitting down and sipping wine talking about a long train journey, books and revolutions. London of the birds of the little ones that took wing and took shelter and came to our feeders. Birds whose flights are so much more graceful than imagination even. London of the streets paved with writers’ words. London of the art galleries, of the river Thames, London of the trees, cherry blossoms and ancient and wise trees of the Kew gardens. London of the ducks and the blue herons and the swans and the double rainbows and the beer on a Friday afternoon of the word ‘horrible’ that was so lovingly said about the weather, of the tubes and the broken plastered walls of the underground. Of the gaps we minded and the cycles and the cycle riders and the music and the overpromise and underwhelming of Hackney. London of the broken hearts, of the harsh words spoken and heard, of the curries that had no nationality. London of the strangers, kind, furious, beautiful strangers. London of the blue skies and London of the friendly shop owners. London of the canals and London of the foxes. London that makes you believe there is no other place like that.
And then, just like that it was over.