Firstly, a quick apology. I know there is no excuse for abandoning the blog for three weeks so I won’t make any. I have kicked off the torture contraptions that are my sexy shoes and have nestled into the worryingly comforting chair on a Southwest Trains train. I’m on way back to London Waterloo from Chessington North, which for a born-and-bred Londoner is kind of like being in the middle of Deliverance; I kept expecting incestuous banjo players to come and grin at me wildly. So anyway, as I journey back to civilization, I silently thank God that I live in London. Yes, I have the typical Love-Hate relationship with London but I definitely love it more than I hate it. Quite recently, I was told that Londoners have a chip on their shoulders and that’s probably true but that’s only because we’re better than everybody else (kidding, just kidding…)
A friend from Birmingham complained that everything is so crowded and fast and people are so rude. Even my sister who lived in London for years found it difficult to deal with after a three-year-long stint up north (don’t ask me where, surely England ends on the borders of the M25?). But my complaint is that London isn’t fast enough. It takes just about all of my self-possession not to scream at women who plod their way up or down stairs in front of me simply because they can’t walk in heels. If you can’t walk in heels, don’t wear them. Even in my torture-contraptions, I don’t slow down to the pace of a stoned tortoise. People texting on their mobiles, fiddling with their iPods or reading their paper are also culprits. What ever happened to multitasking, people? Walk and talk, walk and read, walk and text. Is it really that hard? Faster, faster, faster.
But then again, I’ve been spinning so fast that these thirty minutes of sitting in one place undisturbed seem like a decadent luxury. Surely when you find a Southwest Train seat invitingly comfortable, you know you need to slow down?