I woke up and my tootsies were cold and my arm was dead because my neural system could do with some yoga. I felt London blues sneaking into bed with me. I sat up in bed (they sat next to me under the very snuggly doona). I put the laptop on my lap. I spent a good hour scrolling through endless ads for jobs; each one felt like it either didn't quite need a Claire, or Claire didn't quite need it. I put my running clothes on. Then I took them off because I realised I didn't feel like running. Then I realised I was being mopey and sitting in my bed with the London blues and not sitting in a beautiful spot in London somewhere, so I got up.
Shower, fun clothes, red lipstick and Dorothy shoes. A cup of tea, some suggested cool spots to check out from my lovely host, music in the ears and out the door. A train to the Tate Modern Gallery and a rendezvous with Brad and Luisa (the New Zealanders trying similarly to settle in London post Asia Amazingness). I remembered I wasn't the only one doing this: feeling a bit under the pump to keep up with London Life, so I shouldn't feel too sorry for myself, or like nothing will eventuate. And I was reminded of the fact that I often want things to happen too fast, or all at once, and I should just chill out and enjoy the Being A Bum-ness while its there. Some amazing photos (amongst the Bits Of Art I Didn't Really Get Or Enjoy) by August Sander were breathtaking.
I walked along the South Bank, with beautiful buildings and talented buskers, and found my way to the Borough Markets. And Oh What Joys met my eyes/nose/heart. I got a cup of mulled wine and wandered, tasting bits of cheese/garlic butter/seafood stew/pistachio turkish delight, sold by charismatic and cooly dishevelled young men, and I felt like I could pretend I was way hipper than I am just walking around amongst so much food passion. It was glorious and heart-warming.
... and I just felt immensely happy sitting down to this sexy little spread: home made pumpkin soup (bloody brilliant batch, I'm not going to lie), blue cheese, and baguette and mushroom pâté (*dies/goes to heaven*) and a glass of Australian red wine in a suitably-sized glass. And Stephen Fry is on the telly.