Some mornings in London I wake up and don’t want to get out of bed. I hear the rain against the window and the tip of my nose is cold. When I pull back the curtains a grey and watery world awaits me, and I still haven’t got an umbrella.
Some days the Britishness of things makes me wonder why I’m here: poor heating and rubbish windows; left-hand traffic and murderous taxi drivers; 2-for-1 deals and plastic bags; cups of tea and stiff upper lip. Some days I simply can’t relate to it, miss Munich dearly and want sausages and sauerkraut for lunch.
Sometimes London can be a real bitch: a taxi driver nearly runs you over, the bus doesn’t stop, the Tube is crammed, somebody sneezes in your face; it rains and rains and rains and you still haven’t got an umbrella; your boss is a smartass, your colleagues are nerds and your clients are bankers; you pay a fortune to live in a shoebox and the kid next door is a screeching little monster; you are surrounded by 12 million people and still feel like you don’t have a single friend.
Living in London can be shit at times.
And then one evening as you walk home through the cold, your nose is dripping and your feet are wet, you go around a corner and, all of a sudden, there it is: splendid London, shiny and bright, grand, beautiful and charming.
And you know you’re lucky, and you’re glad you’re here.