Hello London

Hello London

seventeen countries, four continents, an international date limit and a complete world circulation later we are at home

We are at home.

We said goodbye in August last year. Seventeen countries, four continents, an international date limit and a complete world circulation later we are at home.

Things are different. Boris Bikes are now red. The Tories have the majority. And Robert Peston grew hair.

men look bigger. Women are more glamorous, but maybe I don't think that in hiking clothes after a year. Heels. God, they feel great. Suddenly I'm elegant again. And then of course they hurt, but to the hell, they will bring me from Charing Cross to Sagar, where I meet friends for dinner.

"The hipster invasion has reached Stepney Green. East London does not belong to anyone, but I'm still territorial."

I search the shops for a knee -length cardigan, my old one still packed. I can see mother impossible without covering my jeans, unexpected if she is naked. She kisses me as a greeting.

ee kitha Obesa Oyseh Beh? She greets me. What kind of state is that? She refers to the complexion that she inherited me, which I so carelessly dirty with the sun. She leads me in.

There are no tears. Tears are not our thing. The youngest of my five sisters is now married. Another has a new child. We Abdullahs are nothing more than married and fertile.

The hipster invasion has reached Stepney Green. East London does not belong to anyone, but I'm still territorial. I walk across the churchyard of St. Dunstan and it calms me down as always. I walk past Ben Johnson Road faster. When I 33 I am too old to be harassed by boys, but memories are stronger than muscles, so I still accelerate my pace.

I watch commuters in the London subway and the complacency of a traveler rises in me. It doesn't matter, I breed her hurry - but the truth is that it is. People still have life to live. Nobody knows and nobody cares that I was gone for so long or that I see things differently.

Soon we will break up in France for our few months, so I am hugging London so hard. I eat. Oh, I eat and eat and eat and eat. Bangalore Express in the bank, Kati Roll Company in the Oxford Circus, Lahore Kebab House in Whitechapel, Zeera in Mile End. In order to compensate for the sculpture, I walk along channels. I do my first sub-30 5k. I'm fitter when I feared.

I'm going to the cinema - my first for a year - and I buy a huge combination of popcorn and cola. I sit alone and feel good.

I spend. I buy Estée Lauder Advanced Night Repair and Thierry Muglers Angel and Viviscal Vitaminpapseln and a versatile Italian carrying bag. They swallow hundreds from my back home buffer and contradict the philosophy of the traveler, but that doesn't matter to me because I have not felt absolutely clean and completely beautiful for a very long time, and now I am doing it.

I visit Richmond Park and watch deer roaming around. I go over the Waterloo Bridge at dusk and watch the skylines darken under the late summer sun. I feel the buzzing and heartbeat of my hometown and I feel lucky that is deep and profound.

Hello, London, I cry softly. It's so nice to be at home.

"very British problem" by Rob Temple is a hilarious insight into the British psyche, which shows how we are a nation of socially awkward but well -meaning spinners that fight every day to survive it without apologizing in a lifeless object.

Mission statement: Dreamstime

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