The winter in London is a long played note. Yet, there are reasons to love it here. Three are:
1. Green grass, no matter how little rainfall
2. Yummy Chinese food
3. Live music everyday, even in the Tube stations
But the winter is long. It is that song you didn’t like very much when you first heard it. Then that damn DJ played it again and again. Then you started to like it. It caught on. Sang along. Then, ugh! Still playing that damn song.
But then, one day, it stops. It feels good, the empty sound.
Then the sound feels, well, just empty.
That’s February. And the song metaphor might have sung its last note.
I was walking back from the coffeehouse where I go to write today. I hadn’t worked on my novel for a few weeks. But yesterday both Grace and Charlie had talked to me about it. They were gentle and soft and reminded me it was mine, and nobody else’s, to dance with.
And Stuart pushed old buttons, made me uncomfortable. When I went to bed last night, I felt my grip again.
Look what gift I got, after five straight hours of writing.