01 | One Year
Today marks one year in London. One year since that tough first weekend – all those floating uncertainties drenched in jet lag. One year since that starting of a new job – a new culture of work with new jargon and acronyms, new histories and stories and inside jokes. One year of new homes – first one, then another, and now a happy third. One year of new friends – slowly, surely, deeply. One year of new local spots, new habits and routines, of changing commutes and scenery, the days growing shorter and longer.
One year of exploring through photography, of writing letters and postcards, when and if. One year of marching along old stomping ground and newly trodden paths, of canals and parks and rivers and roads. One year of walking and talking with friends old and new. One year of new corners and glimpses of colour, styles of architecture all jumbled up upon each other, of seemingly endless discoveries.
One year of friends visiting: Southbank dinners, museums, pubs, long walks lost in conversation, comforting familiarity and grand adventures. The Lake District with daffodils bursting and lambs bleating, of curling up by a Scottish fire, wine in hand, of pointing out the Barbican from any and every vantage point in London. The familiar comfort of a slice of cake shared with a friend; of brewing tea for not one, but two.
One year of Tesco tears and a dinner at Heston’s, winter walks along the canal and summer evening strolls through Kensington Gardens. A glorious abundance of films at the BFI and Barbican, London Film Festival and Sheffield Doc Fest. Ordering one of everything off the menu, of dinner parties with less than six degrees of separation, and of the divine combination of a fish finger wrap and a bus ride home. Of exploring new locales, travelling with work, and being overwhelmed by Iceland and utterrly charmed by Estonia.
One year. Two overseas trips. Three homes. Four seasons.
"There are eight million stories in the naked city. This has been one of them."
– The Naked City, 1948