...the stars about my head I felt,
about my feet the sea.
I turned 30 on St George's Day in London town. Pink hair; blackberry cocktail in one hand, the Englishman holding the other. He bought me watercolour paints; I'm not good at all, but maybe one day I'll be. At least it makes me lose track of the minutes and hours drifting past when I have a brush in my hand.
This year has been difficult, but more than anything I've realised all I really need is his hand in mine. We to and fro, we try to figure out what we want. And now, we are trying something new, some place new.
When Summer comes, we'll move. Out of the sprawling mammoth that is London, out of the bustle and crowds, the claustriphobia, the angry and frustrated shouts and £15 cocktail pop-up bars. When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; yet, I'm not so sure. Perhaps London broke when Foyles moved buildings; when the musicians who sang the blues at Soho Pizzeria to diners with £10 pizza were pushed out by Tory-owned faux-grassroots Byron burger; when Madame Jojo's drag bar was turned into luxury flats; when hushed voices over candlelight and wine were finally silenced after they raised the rent at The Society Club. What is London anymore but Disneyland and £750,000 to £2.5 million one-bedroom apartments?
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe we'll leave and find the rest of Little Britain a Brexit nightmare. Maybe we'll fail. But, we will see together, hand in hand, feet planted in the sea and heads in the clouds near the stars. And we'll eventually find our place in this world, on this island or another.
Best wishes. Be well.