Flying back to London to see Interstellar at the IMAX, I came back to a November coloured month of broken leaves and traffic queues. The flat was in an adequate condition, my bookshelves looked impressed, even if it was a dowdy reunion overall. The hallway needs re-painting and my double mattress is far too small. I made the right decision to leave.
On the flight home I listened to a British Airways pilot with a breathy, polite Middle England accent and she was complemented by blonde Surrey air stewardesses serving Marks and Spencers sandwiches and orange juice. It occurred to me that the past few weeks have been the second longest time I had spent away from the United Kingdom. Such time lapses don’t phase me anymore, I left home when I was twenty years old.
London is where my core possessions and CV reside for now and its an orderly, pragmatic city full of travelling extras. Arriving back at Old Street, I reacquainted myself with the designer stalls and lumbersexual individuals I had grown tired of before. Nothing changes in a few weeks.
It’s the same as before; the young bearded man in a glass cubicle ordering t-shirts in an ironic cartoon jumper, the salad box lunch stalls, and all those perfect South-East accents passing through me on the stairwell.
Perfection is what is needed to succeed in London, you need a perfect personality with a perfect set of skills. Just like the southern accents that I heard passing through me at Old Street station on my way home. That hipster kid with a manicured beard probably had one as well.
Fuck it, there is nothing like the narcissism of small difference to make me realise that I am still an errant Scot after all.