I pull my earbuds out and buy a turkey and cranberry pasty for 3.75, worth every pence. Pasties are like pies. Little pies full of spices and potatoes and meat and other worthwhile things, all wrapped up and juicy in thick buttery flaky pastry. Oh, careful how you say it, if you ever order one. Say “past” like “it was in the past” NOT “I used paste”. Big fat difference. The former is tasty pies, the latter involves burlesque routines.
The Evening Standard and I chill by the Bishopsgate entrance to Liverpool St. Station. I read the paper and eavesdrop on the three peers next to me. (read in your best British accent.)
“Eww, someone get it off me. I can’t stand it. I get that whenever I touch unprocessed wood.”
“There’s a man by the Starbucks who’s a woman.”
“What! A man who’s a woman!?
“Well shout it why don’t you!"
”I caught myself singing along to Justin Bieber the other day…”
Train stations are like airports, all hustle and bustle and wait, rife with possibility. I’m beginning to have a real affinity for the Liverpool St. Station. It’s on a busy street, with pubs and coffeeshops and newsstands and patio tables in the entrance, where the human lifeblood of London grabs a pint and a chat, or reads the paper. And in the dark cozy evening, it has some sort of ancient beehive aura that’s comforting. Therapeutic. I think that’s the height of my hybrid introvert/extrovert personality right there: therapy= being alone and chilling in a crowded space, observing. Love it. I feel as though I become part of the architecture, part of London. A Londoner. I get to pretend I’m a Londoner.
I despair of describing London to you. It defies me. It’s too hard.
Come. Come here.