I'm not over the Hill
Is it London that's depressing, or is it the memories it holds, that makes me melancholy all over again? I found this circular and somewhat inconsequential question occupying my mind most of last week.

But as the week drew to a close, and the mundane routine of rush hour train rides, excruxiatingly drawn out trainings and mandatory after work grocery shopping came to a temporary halt, I felt my spirits lift as I remembered once again, what it was about this city that made me (and as I found out, still makes me) happy.

If Sunday brunch is an institution, then Saturday brunch is a pre-requisite to a perfect start to the weekend; and where better than the one place I spent many a wonderful days, strolling through the markets, peeking enviously through boutique shop windows and hating the multitude of tourists that seemed to defile the otherwise tranquil landscape?

Notting Hill, a little suburb in London made famous by the movie of the same name; a little alternative, a little grungy, a little fashionable and so very pretty. The tree-lined streets and grand white terraces were as I remembered them. The little boutiques and my favourite cafes were exactly where they used to be. How delighted was I with my pre-brunch purchase from one of those shops which I had, barely 2 years ago, looked into and given a little sigh of desire.

My pretty yellow shoes, sat in their pretty brown box, in a pretty brown bag, on the sleek white chair at Raoul's. My order arrived, I held my breath, knife and fork poised in anticipation. A gentle slit. The delicate egg burst open and a beautiful, rich river of yolk oozed out. But what filled the plate was more than just a bright yellow colour; here, coccooned in a tiny corner table, surrounded by luxe black and white wallpaper, the sights, sounds and flavours brought back memories of stories swapped, unexpected friendships and promises made.
The familiar chatter brought a tiny smile to my lips, lips which i smacked, as I polished off the last morsels of my delightful eggs benedict. The bill arrived, I did a quick conversion in my head, and gasped, my lovely memories rudely interrupted by a less desirable one. Yes, it's true. London is impossibly expensive. Then again, how can anyone put a price on the little things that make life worth living?
We said see you later, kisses on each cheek. Yes, it's not goodbye.
Someday, in the distant future, I will sit in my rocking chair, and I will remember these moments and cherish each and every one them.
Someday, I will be old and gray, but I will definitely never be over the Hill.