I have recently returned from a few days in London preceded by a day in Brighton attending a family wedding. People seemed rather impressed that I had come "all the way from France" and were taken aback when they found that their journey was in fact longer and more complicated than mine. Total time taken including waiting time, four and a quarter hours. Actual travelling time just under three hours.
Brighton was as belle as I have ever seen it and the crowds not overly spoiling of the atmosphere on the Friday when I arrived. The sun blazed from a cloudless blue sky and I was enjoying myself. My lodgings were with friends close to the station - I was warmly welcomed into their very lovely flat, and the wedding took place amidst the splendours of the Royal Pavillion and then afterwards at the, less salubrious yet more than adequate, Old Ship Hotel.
London was perfect. I had lost much of my love for the capital with the passing years and the frustrations of working and paying the price of living there. Without those ties this glorious city regains its attractions and sees them enhanced when clement summer weather allows for looser, and less clothing and sitting outside eating and passing time with friends.
My grateful thanks to all who welcomed me, gave me shelter, food, drink, company, time, cards and presents - an iminent now passed birthday - and a very welcome plaster, during my sojourn in the city where I had spent the whole of my adult life until last year.
As the Eurostar sped me homewards to Lille I looked forward to getting back to my new reality and confirmed to myself that the reason I had enjoyed London in June so very much was simple: I didn't live there anymore.
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