La’m missing my alternative homeland, those Great United Kingdoms.
Not sure what’s triggered this; could be the wall-to-wall media footage of the exterior of the hospital where Dilatey Katie was holed up trying to ensure her marmalade toast defied gravidarum for a few days. It’s la self-same one where I finally had successful surgery to fix up la knee after the notorious Cafe Neon / Whitney Houston dancing debacle of 1992.
Or it could be all those Facebook friends posting pics of chestnuts roasting on open fires, Regent Street Christmas lights, bright blue, sunny — yes, sunny — London days, and winter visits to alpine chateaux. Oops, did I call them ‘friends’?
Alt-homesickness has also manifested itself in strange late-night eBay purchases.
And that new BA billboard and print ad almost makes me weepy. La knows the Qantas-Emirates tie-up makes economic and route sense. But Qantas, why did you forsake BA?!? You’ve rent la world asunder.
This here would still be my very favourite journey.
Then, generally, six or so months later, my favourite journey’s the one back. Then, six or so months later… you get the drift. Welcome to la life of a geographical malcontent.
La’m missing my northern hemi Christmas lead-up — real wreath from Wild at Heart on Turquoise Island in Notting Hill, stuffing and gravy pre-prepped from Alastair Little at Tavola on Westbourne Grove, copious burning of orangey, clovey Diptyque Pomander candles… *sigh*
Today, shall console self with lunch here:
…and remind Laself that particular, specific pleasure would be impossible in Londra.