Jour 7

I’m taking myself on a date

Bunch of fritto misto and some italian missus from the centre of Italy. Apologies, I can’t be more accurate, I didn’t understand the name of the place and I hate to ask again. The last table is late, they close the kitchen at 10pm. It’s Jojo’s playlist, the one we like. How do you make friends in London outside of work? I don’t think it’s feasible. Actually, my colleague said she made a friend in her pottery class. She was quite proud of it. It’s just showing really, how hard it is to make friends in this country. And when I say this country I mean England. And more specifically London. People back home think I’m smothered with friends. I’m not really. You meet people, you love them, and they leave the borough, the city, the county, the country. You meet people, you love them and they leave you. You meet people, you don’t really like them but you think they are alright, and then they disappoint you anyway. It’s hard to relate when you’re French, or Italian, or German. But really the people in your life, they won’t stay. And it’s okay. You learn to mourn quicker. You learn to accept they are just a picture on your wall or in your bedside table. You might remember their voice, and their smile. You might remember their red hat or their stupid shoes. But at the end of the day, they are not sharing orange wine or closing a restaurant with you, they are not spilling beers along the Thames or walking in the Cesky Krumlov castle, they are not leaving you their babies – anymore. They’re gone. Like dead really. It’s how it feels. Like everyone is dead despite the fact they still live somewhere on the planet. And you know what? That’s okay – again. Because I still chat to the bouncer of the pub next to mine, and to the Turkish shopkeeper, and to the tfl worker in St James Street station. Everyday I feel connected to this place that is London. A place so harsh to live in, when you don’t have your mates from uni or your mum and dad, a place with black mould on your wall’s bedroom, where salted butter is more expensive than gold, and some drunken man is entering a lady’s car near Hackney Downs. Because eventually it is my home and I have learnt to embrace it. 

By the way, this date title was the base of another story originally.