The hotel I stayed at in Fitzrovia didn’t have a toilet in
the room: I’m not sure how I had missed this when I booked it. It was £49 and
the woman who checked me in was European — I say European because it doesn’t
matter now where in Europe you are from if you are in this country, we're all in the same boat. My room was
on the top floor, the British third floor, and when I opened the door, I thought
this will do: what do I have to complain about.
I changed quickly, so I could get a run in. It was the
second day of the British summer, which lasts for two or three days at a time before
tapering off in August. I waited at the light and then set out into the park,
towards the zoo. There was a fat man running in front of me, and I thought that
I felt fat too, but in a way that I’ve come to accept since seeing Julie for
the last month. We can both agree you’re
not fat, she says, and the part of me that agrees with that agrees with
her. I ran up the outside of the park, past a fit couple running together and
then out the back up what is called Primrose Hill. I know London well enough,
but I had never heard of Primrose Hill, which I read as Promise Hill. There, in the middle of the city, a hill
looking out over everything.
I ran up it and smelt weed: someone on one of the blankets,
the young white and beautiful people, and then past Chinese exchange students
with new iPhones, and finally to the top looking out. Yes, London, I thought,
and ran back to the hotel.
Dismantling anger leaves you with a void: if you aren’t
constantly and selfishly blaming your partner for everything bad that is
happening to you, it’s your own fault, or worse, nobody’s fault. My
inheritance came from my Grandfather and suddenly I was sobbing like he hadn’t
been dead for months now. Why would money be the trigger. I reach for the
tissues, and stop to think. That’s it, isn’t it. Stopping to think about it
all.
The void, of course. Everything is just looking into the void in one way or another. I
sat down to write on Monday morning this week thinking that exact thing. Here
are some blank pages. I apologise constantly. I take
the kids to school, up the road, in the rain this week. Mia cries holding her
umbrella and I yell at Naomi for being insensitive. The new bakery opens. We go
to the library and I read Mia a story. It’s okay, of course. You apologise and
move on — nothing’s really wasted though.