Sunday in the City

Dear London, 

Sunday’s with you bring out the ghosts. The ghosts that have been. The ghosts of could of beens and should have beens. The ghost of happy endings. You could be perfect, you are made for Sunday’s; the unattainable roast, illicit afternoon wine stretching into the evening, family and friends. Seem to be an M&S advert or John Lewis. A reason I sold you to myself.  I never quite found a Sunday as it should in you, so being alone in you, on the end of the weekend always echoes louder.

The mist doesn’t help. The proximity to christmas only adds to my malaise. And you provide me with old fashion fog, soft edges, silhouette couples sauntering into the dusk. A Winter wonderland reflecting off a lake.  Fuck me, you’ve even provided a sound track,  you’ve pulled out a busker, the one that always gets me. The man playing the penny whistle like his heart is breaking.

Happy Sunday, London. It’s been a fine weekend.

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