There’s a map at my parents’ place. Ostensibly it’s of London but really, it’s only a glimpse of it, mainly of Bloomsbury. Resplendent with bookshops filled to the brim, cosy pubs, and blue plaques, it’s my mother’s favourite area. I can remember lying underneath the map, legs outstretched on the sofa, head resting against the cushioned arm, book in hand. I’d look up, craning my neck at an awkward angle, to follow the line from Gray’s Inn Road along Theobald’s Road, up John’s Street, past Coram Fields, winding around to Russell Square. I’d reminisce over memories of walking those very streets with family, rugged up in winter coats, scarves wrapped high on cheeks, hands firmly in pockets, umbrellas raised against the soft rainfall, and would wonder when and what future memories would look like, would wonder what my life in London would look like.
Years and years
Years and years
Years and years
There’s a map at my parents’ place. Ostensibly it’s of London but really, it’s only a glimpse of it, mainly of Bloomsbury. Resplendent with bookshops filled to the brim, cosy pubs, and blue plaques, it’s my mother’s favourite area. I can remember lying underneath the map, legs outstretched on the sofa, head resting against the cushioned arm, book in hand. I’d look up, craning my neck at an awkward angle, to follow the line from Gray’s Inn Road along Theobald’s Road, up John’s Street, past Coram Fields, winding around to Russell Square. I’d reminisce over memories of walking those very streets with family, rugged up in winter coats, scarves wrapped high on cheeks, hands firmly in pockets, umbrellas raised against the soft rainfall, and would wonder when and what future memories would look like, would wonder what my life in London would look like.