I cut my budget and decided to move out of my neighbourhood.
Lovely lovely Pimlico. My part of town for the last 4 years. I found myself strolling even slower; savouring each step through the grid.
These streets reminded me of the West Village in New York. I had gone there 3 summers before with a person who was now a stranger to me. We had strolled up through Perry Street on a hot summers day, seeking shade beneath the trees that lined the edges of the pavements.
And we'd had dinner outside on 259,West 4th Street, sheltered from the sudden heavy rainfall. It was still warm, but the rain brought on a slight panic to the city, and all of a sudden everyone seemed to be running for their lives. I felt calm, safe, happy, sitting next to the man I loved as we watched a lady with a short-haired daschund trying to get her stubborn dog to walk faster through the rain.
I remember calling my mother two days into my week long trip and telling her that at some point in my life I would live here. It had exceeded all of my expectations and in a strange way it instantly felt like home.
I had since stopped missing the man sitting next to me in that restaurant, but I yearn to walk those streets again.
Pimlico had been my replacement. My little apple, and it scares me thinking that I might pine for it when I'm gone. For my flat. My home. My big marble fireplace with candles scattered all around and floor to ceiling windows. My florist around the corner, who I go to to pick up bunches of Anemones, Ranunculus and Peonies on a Sunday. Of course that all sounds silly since I can return any time I like, but this era is ending whether I like it or not, and I don't know if I'm ready.
Last night I sat on my balcony in a sleeveless shirt with a mug of peppermint tea in my hands and I decided that an outdoor space really is essential. I breathed in the musky polluted London air, and wondered why I was the only one in my street to be enjoying it.
As I looked around, I could see glaring tv screens and drawn curtains. Everyone seemed to be shutting themselves in, away from the warm evening and views of the streets. I was baffled.
As I sleepily retreated to bed, I lay and looked around the room. All it was was bricks and a lick of paint. A door here, a window there. A few paintings on the walls. A pigeon grey jug of light pink peonies on the side. Two books on my bedside table next to two gold rings and Geranium and Orange Neals Yard hand cream.
All replaceable things. Suddenly I wasn't so worried, and as I drifted off I realised that my home would always be wherever I was.
