“I could never live in London” , I hear for what must be the hundredth time in my life. As I’m sat in a huddle of fluorescent toddler’s toys in a dusty living room surrounded by family friends. Family friends. A term we can all universally admit means people we have to pretend to like for the sake of polite society. Nobody wants to accidentally cause a divorce by not complimenting Aunty Lucinda on her potato salad. Even though Aunty Lucinda is in fact nobody’s Aunt, but someone who insists on being called that to give her some sort of relevancy. The potato salad is also store bought from Aldi. She always forgets to remove the label. Or doesn’t care enough to bother. The ultimate mystery.
“Isn’t it lonely?” , the woman asks me, snapping me back to reality and away from my internal musings about potato salad. I think her name is Jean. Or is it Joan? It definitely begins with a J I think, but to be honest I tuned out after the first syllable left her unevenly lined Estée Lauder-stained lips. I’m also now acutely aware of some cold, hard plastic digging into my upper thigh. Causing a pins and needles sensation down the right side of my leg. Looking down I remove a green plastic T-Rex from its current nesting spot, its beady red eyes looking straight up into my own. I briefly imagine it coming to life and murdering present company to spare me from this conversation. One swift sharp bite to the head should do it.
“It can be yes, like any city. But it can also be exciting. I’m really enjoying living there”. My response does not seem to be what Jean- Joan is looking for. Her reply of “hmm” is in the same tone of my old, withering Henry Hoover when I make it clean for me. Like it’s disgruntled at my audacity to ask it to fulfil its intended purpose.
I bring my conversation with Jean-Joan to a close by stating I need the bathroom, bringing my new T-Rex friend with me as my imagined saviour. He doesn’t deserve to listen to Jean-Joan’s ramblings either. She’s on her fourth glass of white wine now too, so it’ll only get worse.
Getting up from my spot on the floor of the living room filled with people of varying ages perched on sofas, the centre stage taken by two children sword fighting with coat hangers - I make my escape down the hallway. Two doors on the left is the bathroom, and twisting the handle I bolt the door behind me and take a seat. Placing Terry the T-Rex on the sink, I notice the sign hung above it. It says “Take aim gentlemen, and shoot”. I wonder, is this meant to be encouraging for those who suffer from bathroom stage fright? Or is it a legitimate attempt at humour?
I let out a long sigh of relief. But even with Joan-Jean’s voice silenced, I couldn’t help but wonder. Would that be me someday? Sat opposite a woman in her twenties trying to make it in the world, interrogating her as to why she’d even want to try? I feel sad for her. I wonder if it’s bitterness of a life not lived to ask such questions, or the five pound pinot grigio. Most likely a mix of both.
I hear these same questions often from people in the town I grew up in. The ones that never left. Their worlds so small, so mundane, that the thought of leaving to them is a betrayal of some ancient order. Their whole world extending to the same four letter beginning of a postcode. It’s funny really. But also, a little bleak. And explaining myself to them every time I visit family at home is getting old.
After just three hours at this house I am longing for the London chaos that has been my life for the last five years. For the bright twinkling lights over Battersea bridge. For the sirens, the nights dancing, the bad dates, for making new friends and reminiscing with old ones. I long even for the things I find annoying sometimes. Like the monotone “mind the gap” announcement. The inevitable delays from Westminster to Wimbledon on the district line that almost always make me late to work. The way it takes at least a half hour to get anywhere in the city despite geographical distance. I even long for the guilt I feel when tourists ask me for directions because I look like I know where I’m going, and I answer assuredly knowing that I have not the faintest idea.
But for me, these details are the things that I want to remember when I leave one day and settle down somewhere for a quieter life. I want to remember how London was at times about feeling lost, confused and not knowing what I was doing with my life. Because to wonder and be confused and blunder along, making new memories in the process? That to me, is living.
I want to be brave for what remains of my youth. So that I can later reminisce with my children about my twenties, inspiring them to make amazing memories of their own. I want to show them that they are not limited by the city limits in which they were born, but only by the full extent of their imagination. Terry the T-Rex roars his agreement as I leave the bathroom, silently picking up my coat and slipping out the front door. London is calling.