One of those weeks when a bad mood crests and swells, blooms black like a bruise. One of those weeks where life in this city seems a pointless endeavour, sharp elbows slicing ribs on the clammy underground and why do I bother with this expensive, cruel town? On weeks like this it helps to remember one’s blessings, especially in light of the horror and sorrow dominating the news.
This week I’m thankful for: Monday night, the city aglow in the evening rain, a hurried dinner date in a South Kensington window-seat, my sweet housemate-to-be in the same turtleneck he wore the night of our meeting. A rip-roaring night at the Proms – Bartok and Mozart and a Soviet opera none of us could understand, but nonetheless enjoyed immensely. A Tuesday morning full of kisses, a week of furious work that ended miraculously on time, a walk through Regent’s Park one lunchtime during a break in the downpours, the chill in the air, autumn’s tides washing in ever closer. I’m so thankful for it all, my family and the job that affords me a life in this strange and fascinating city, the imminent move to the west, the three colourful bowls in my wardrobe ready to be used for granola and yoghurt in our new place. It’s the weekend and things are looking up.