Rushing home on the Tube, it’s Thursday night and running late. I look up from the Evening Standard and realize we’re only one stop away from home, St John’s Wood. And then it occurs to me I barely noticed the day.
I ate lunch at my desk not at some market tucked in a city corner. I didn’t watch London from my office window with my coffee. I didn’t appreciate the break in the rain. I didn’t notice the sun setting over St Paul’s or the crush of people crossing London Bridge.
It was just a day.
Living here I feel like one of those terminal patients with a year to live. The ones who talk about every day being one less than they had the day before. Every day is a gift, all the dying clichés.
But I expect every day here to be special. And the city doesn’t disappoint. As long as I take notice.
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