As I’m typing this, I’m sat on coach A1 from London Victoria to Luton airport. It’s 12:30pm and I’ve been on a mission to catch a flight home since 9am. Why I don’t fly from Gatwick if I live in Brighton, you ask? Well, because no flights from Gatwick go anywhere near where I live is my answer.
It could’ve been as easy as Brighton – London Victoria – Luton but no. Southern and their not very trustworthy restricted service made me catch a train to London Bridge, the Jubilee Line to Westminster and the Circle line to Victoria. Hence the very long journey. I’ll get home at about 5:30pm UK time. Bloody hell.
I was curious to see what going to London would do to me. It’s the first time I’ve gone back since I moved and the thought of it alone felt funny. In the past, I called London the Love of My Life. I said it was my longest and strongest relationship I’d ever had, but then, as you all know, that crumbled to pieces.
And that’s exactly what coming here has felt like. It’s like seeing an ex with whom you broke up not too long ago. An amicable breakup, but a breakup nonetheless. It’s like seeing this person after a good few weeks in which you’ve settled into your new life. It’s very familiar, it’s very close – after all, the two of you spent a good chunk of your lives together – but it’s also so clear why it didn’t work out. You remember the good times, you cherish the good times but it’s oh-so crystal clear why the two of you are not meant to be.
On the other hand, I felt a bit sad to leave Brighton. I never felt sad to leave London and I never felt overjoyed when I came back to London. But Brighton? I can’t wait to see you again. Don’t forget about me.
‘til next time x