Yep, we’ve been inundated with rain. The ground is soggy. The cobblestone pavements down alley ways and in between streets glisten like glazed over eyes. The smells of exhaust somehow seem just as pungent as they are during sizzling hot summer afternoons, of which there have been maybe two this summer in London, although I enjoyed many — minus the exhaust — in Howell.
I look up as I cross the street while cars stand still waiting for lights to turn green. I see different coloured brick buildings, some over a hundred years old. Black. Grey. Red. People walk by me, speaking different languages, wearing clothes from every faith and every decade. I see mums and dads walking their children to day care and picking them up each morning and afternoon. I squeeze into the last possible space on the Central line, bury my head in my book, The History of Love, and enjoy the soundtrack for my commute, Sufjan Stevens (fellow Hope Alumni!) this morning.
This weekend we will go to a couple photography/art exhibitions, How We Are, The Haywood Gallery (I think this is the one Ali wants to go to) and World Press Photo. Ali finishes his job tomorrow morning and after celebrating with his mates at the pub from 7am onwards, he settles into a week off before starting his much anticipated new job at Reuters in Canary Wharf.
Our toes are soggy. The snails and slugs keep lurking in the corners of our garden and hiding beneath the centre of our herbs, hoping I won’t pluck them and fling them aimlessly out into the great wide world. We head into our last day of both of our working weeks, although I know I will take some reading and planning home for the weekend to prepare for next week. It’s been a good week. Busy. Fulfilling. And tiring. But good. Real good.