Spring has come to foggy depressive overcast London, and the sun is too damn bright. Where did you go, lovely cloud cover? It's like the sky took off its sunglasses.
I've ditched my down coat for the light trench I bought in Spain. Otherwise, my winter habits persist. Coffee, markets, cider, & AJ, the hyper-stylish man in my life.
We go to either Portobello market, or Brick Lane market, or both, every weekend.
I sleep over his flat and he cooks for me. When we go out, people ask permission to photograph him. And he sometimes photographs me. He's been cited by vogue twice for his blog: http://www.stitchsociety.blogspot.com/
Someday he will be a fashion icon (if he's not one already.)
For his birthday on March 16th we've decided to stage a public engagement party, with a scandalous conclusion in which I catch him making out with our future best man.
In other news
I read a book,saw a film,started a writing group, and began learning German (Das Mädchen isst ein belegtes Brot = the girl is eating a sandwich.)
I chipped my front tooth biting down too hard in my sleep.
As you can see, I'm growing and changing as a person.
The other day I saw a man walking down the street eating a cup of custard. Straight custard. A big cup.
Walking home on Portobello Road, I get a strong whiff of arugula coming from someone's ciabatta sandwich. I spot lots of skinny ankles sprouting from vintage boots. Watch yellow-red paella swirling around a giant pan. Watch people trying on fedoras. Watch tourism and home-bred style sharing the same space. On the tube, a pink-clad baby plays with a stranger's oyster card and reaches hungrily for her iphone.
There's no place like London.