Dear London

This is not a love letter in the traditional sense. I am not going to compare thee to a summer’s day because you provide them so infrequently I cannot be sure what they are. Instead this is an exposé of the tired, sometimes strained relationship we share.

Where to begin? You, London and I have always had a melodramatic and tumultuous love affair. While there has undoubtedly been happy times filled with fun and laughter there has also been several tears and hate-filled words hurled around. I'm not proud of it but I know it's not unusual to see you cower in the corner as I threaten a healthy dose of domestic violence if you dare offend me again. But at the heart, at some level anyway, there is a lot of love between us.

And that is what our relationship survives on. This morsel of hope is what we cling to and is the basis for my letter today. Those glimmers of hope; those fun summer days in the park, the frivolity and fun of sightseeing, the sandwich meal deals.

It is a love affair that London and I have, but a 21st century one. Not so much Singing in the Rain but arguing with each other while waiting for a bus in the pouring rain, soaked and miserable but at the same time somewhat content because we just had delicious London Indian food. London was the first international city I visited. I was just a young carefree 20-year old with hair as big as my dreams. It was a lovely August summery day in 2005 with Big Ben towering above and an African man following me through Hyde Park.

It can be a wondrous, joyful city when it wants to be but it's not all puppy dogs and rainbows. There is a dark side to London, a side you don’t want to take home to meet the family. A side that annoys, if not enrages.

One minute London life is peachy keen, then it clouds over and the rage consumes me again.

Suddenly my friendly city of fun and love is grey. Grey. Permanently grey. It sets in and stays for the rest of your lifetime until you just couldn’t possibly take it anymore, you’re tightening your noose, “goodbye cruel w’…” …and then a bit of blue sky peeks through to remind you that there is a world out there.

The city for the most part is grey, grey roads, old grey buildings, new grey buildings – the newer ones are just fancier gradients of grey and glass which reflects the rest of the grey. The Thames is that murky brown that looks quite frankly, grey. The sky is grey and together it all just merges together into one giant smear of suicide inducing smokey, gunmental, Early grey.

Then there’s the rain. If you leave without a jacket or umbrella it will rain. Sometimes it starts and doesn’t stop until you are about to hammer that last nail into your water tight ark.

But that’s all to be expected. It the truth universally acknowledged that London’s weather is dare I say it, shit. Some locals claim otherwise but it’s for no other reason than that they have never learnt that it the sky is supposed to be blue.

Teacher: “What colour is the sea?”
Children: “Blue”

Teacher: “What colour is a bus?”
Children: “Red”

Teacher: “What colour is the sky?”
Children: “Like a stucco, whiteish, stone grey with hints of depressive smokey grey”

These are trivialities and it’s not something London controls but it doesn’t stop me blaming it for all my, and the world woes. On a personal level our relationship can be strained.

Sometimes London and I want to go a date. Maybe go out for some coffee? Which sadly only ends in me throwing the scalding milky coffee in London’s face and screaming, “you call this coffee!”.

It’s awkward when we are in public together because London is very fashionable. Its finger is on the pulse with fashion. Clothes are ripped from the catwalk, then teamed with a simple high-end corporate blazer and a slightly indie fedora hat for an edge. It’s always a topic of contention with London and I because I want to leave the house in some baggy pants, Converse and a Santa jumper and then pull on a beanie. London disapproves. It’s written all over its face.

The trouble is our relationship has been off and on now for the past 6 and a half years. We know each other’s flaws which can bring us undone. I know and can, I suppose, accept that London will never provide me with decent lollies, coffee or sunshine and it knows that I cannot use a key or unlock a Barclay’s bike the first time round.

It’s true sometimes I think why the hell am I here? this city does nothing but cost me money and make my skin and hair uncharacteristically dry. I had no intentions when I relocated to relocate to stinky old/lovely old London. But here I am. And for all its flaws and all our harsh words, fist fights and black eyes there are equal amount of time where I love this city.

It is a great city.

We just have our problems. But all relationships do. And we are working on in it. Someone suggested couples therapy so London’s seeing a shrink because to be fair, it it’s problem, not mine. I’m charming.

I have seen West End, there’s a lot of singing and dancing and being faaaaabulous going on, so maybe London’s gay?

We will have to wait and see how it plays out, and if these differences end up being irreconcilable, I'll move on to a younger, more charming city, one that plays the guitar. I have no doubt London and I will just stay friends, see each other every now and then when there's a band in town or I need a lift to the airport.

Whether we can survive together is any ones guess.