Almost everything that could be written about being done with London has been written already.
The Million Monkeys live here and they didn’t write Shakespeare, they wrote a million blogs about how London is alive with the sound of people not talking to each other. Shoulder barging their way through festivals and food fairs while uploading pictures and muttering sweet nothings to themselves. Inaudible to most. All the most. Almost.
I have to confess that I’ve been done for a while. Moving away from Greenwich and taking on a commute that went underground, spending increasing amounts of time surrounded by people but having no conversation. It has played havoc with my ‘Londoner’ identity and left me silently screaming for less.
Maybe it was the first time I didn’t say ‘sorry’ for bumping into someone. Or maybe it was the moment I rolled my eyes when the tube was stopped. Or maybe it when I didn’t notice that I could go all day without speaking to another person yet stand less than an inch away from them on public transport.
Yes, I’m definitely done with London.
So it’s lucky really that my decade here is coming to an end. Three Sunday mornings left and I’m done. Almost.
I’m almost done.
Which is probably why it’s started to look so perfect.