Old Blue

Maybe it's living in London. Maybe it's an age thing. Maybe it's that ever eroding chip on my shoulder. Whatever it is, lately life has become one big competition.

Endless rounds of who is is planning the most luxurious holiday, wearing the most expensive 'it' bag,  sporting the biggest knuckle weighting diamond or climbing that elusive career ladder the fastest. With the only apparent prize being the knowledge that you've got one over on your friends?

Don't get me wrong, I'm not exactly low maintenance, I'm all about the finer things in life. However, if I'm really honest my most treasured possessions have absolutely no monetary value at all but to me, they're priceless.

I know I'm not alone, I can't be the only one who remembers a time when a homemade mix tape from the boy next door or being gifted a bar of my favourite chocolate was enough to make my heart skip a beat?

I was reminded of this recently when I found this old email from me to Mr H:



"It's 05.25am.  I have just spent 45 minutes on a night bus adventure and there was not a seat to be seen. Seriously, you have to ask where all these people are off to at this time of day? I'm thinking crack cocaine is a bigger issue then any of us realise.....


Finally I'm here. Sleep deprived with aching legs, standing on a freezing platform in Victoria station. To my left  there are two spritely young gents who look suspiciously like they have been 'raving' (with the help of various narcotics) for some time now. I have twice declined their less than subtle invitations to join the party.

To top it all off I've just paid £6.00 for 'breakfast' which after my first bite I concluded that, looks are not in-fact deceptive and I was right. It's inedible. True to calamity form I persevered and it wasn't until that fateful 3rd bite that I admitted defeat and donated the goods to a pigeon.... even the bird declined such a tasty morsel. Obviously Croque Monsieur wasn't its first choice from the a la carte offerings of the concrete floor, as it went for a discarded tissue instead - can't say I blame it. I am even quite envious.

Some would say I can't expect the 'Deli France' stand to deliver perfectly authentic French cuisine? This little known truth, I'm sure, shocks you as much as it did me. By now I'm sure you will be wondering of the reasons behind me subjecting you to this banal rambling of thoughts and observations of clandestine London? I have also, at times while writing this - lost sight of my original message.

But then, as I'm boarding my carriage I remember. It's all so clear. It is that, as I stand here on the verge of a comatosed depression, I realise that I'm warm, comfortable and okay, perhaps a little smug. All because I am wearing my new favourite thing; A shrunken, worn, bobbled blue jumper stolen from a boy that I love.

What a perfect morning this is."


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