Goodbye Big City,You’ve treated me well.

You haven’t tried to snatch my bag away whilst I’ve walked along the street at midnight (although you did moon at me drunkenly one night) you haven’t frustrated me with your cramped, sweaty conditions on the tube (although those bombings really did piss me off)and you haven’t gotten me digging into my overdraft just yet (You’ve politely left Rotterdam to do this to me).

I shall miss your glitzy premieres in Leicester Square where all the big Hollywood stars come to smile, wave, sign autographs, and then leg it into the cinema before anyone else can catch them.
I shall miss the still nights on the South Bank where the reflection of the Parliament lights shimmer on the surface of the Thames, and I lean on the edge gazing, wondering whether I have anything deep I can contemplate.I’ll think about how i used to walk past Big Ben everyday and wonder what the hell the big deal is.I’ll pine for the Muji stores which used to compel me towards them with their big fat “SALE” signs hanging in the window.Oxford Street will forever live in my memory as the place where I blew way too much money in way too little time. But heck it was good money wasted.
You had within your borders, royal parks, jazz clubs, west-end shows, cinemas, chinatowns and little indias, festivals and concerts, architecture and pretty museums, 54,872 starbucks and a helluva loada gastronomic delights and a lotta pretty people (and some mugly ones too for good measure.)
I can’t say I love you, since for all this you did poison my lungs and evacuate me from a couple of tube stations, but I’m rather, awfully fond of you. I think I may have to come back some time – if I’m still here and not working in the Big L, where else would I work?

Yours faithfully, me.

Get well soon Auntie, we’re all here for you.