It has been a week of nightmare commutes. Trains were cancelled due to leaves on the rails, to signal failures and for other unknown reasons that TFL wishes to keep to itself. This is just one of the perks of living and working in London.
And yes, living in London... It has been five years. When I moved here, I hated it. I hated the never-ending underground monologue repeating: "mind the gap, mind the opening doors, mind the closing doors, train approaching, train departing, don't forget to touch your Oyster, drink water, stand behind the yellow line..." And of course, I've become paler and my hair has lost its sun-kissed streaks (I had to seek artificial measures).
Are Londoners all masochists? You spend half your salary on rent (if you want to live in Zone 2), for the price of your morning cappuccino you can buy a whole lunch meal back at home, and you spend most of your life stranded on train platforms or public transport, or flushing your money down the abyss of taxi apps...
You build this dysfunctional relationship with London. After 5 years, London has grown on me. It has managed to penetrate under my skin. When I'm gone for a week, I want to come back. It sucks out energy from you as much it gives you wings. London is for people who are high on life and are prepared to pay the price for it. You have to get the kicks out of the most magical possibilities that this city offers you and suck up all the rest.
I love drinking my Ethiopian coffee at a coffee shop, tucked away in the depths of Peckham or walking down the Thames until the end of the footpath. I love browsing through overpriced design books on Broadway Market or having that perfect scone at Tate Café. And lastly, it's all about meeting people from the other side of the world who you end up being so close with that your perception of the planet Earth instantly shrinks.
I shall stand behind the yellow line, thank you. Just give me the London drug.
This blog was originally published on www.lizasarah.com