So yesterday (you miserable ingrates). I was just too tired to blog after our antenatal class the night before. And perhaps too scarred after watching Bryan having to simulate natural squatting birth positions with panting breathing techniques while the English/French-African/Canadian/Swiss/English men around him did it too. And don’t get me started on perineal massage.
Had I been more topically apropos, I would have blogged something perfect for Earth Day. So I will today. I will write about global climate change… or as I like to call it: w e a t h e r.
The weather in London has been SICK. Sick is slang for AWESOME. The thing about London (and I’ve said it before) is that when it is sunny and warm it just astounds and beguiles you. And you fall in love all over again. And you forget all the bad times in overcast days and cold, dreary rain. You forget the time it cheated on you with your best friend, hit you a little too hard on the arm when its eyes said “this should be your face” and stole your ATM card. That’s what I am saying. I mean, yeah, I might have even made an analogy with domestic violence. Which is rather inappropriate of me. But the thing is, that’s sort of what London does. And I guess we are all a little co-dependent now. Because
it’s a beautiful wonderful warm sunny city where people drink outside and sit in parks and read 15 different newspapers and say things like “bloke” and probably came from somewhere else, just like you, and want to ingest, no devour, the fleeting days of perfection. And so we all do together.
Like on this sliver of green right by my office. Where I like to eat a salad from Pret and listen to Kanye on my nano (whitey alert).
I love seeing professionals basking in the sun. There is hope. Even if you know you have to work every Monday through Friday from morning until evening of the next thirty years of your life, you can get a sunburn at lunchtime. That’s all I’m saying.