Sanctuary

I met my old colleague for a coffee early this morning. He's working at Oxford Circus in a tech start up. It was so good to see him.

We looked each other up and down. 

"You look different," he said. 

"I'm walking 15,000 steps a day, I'm between jobs and I'm home," was my reply. 

London, for all its faults, is my sanctuary city. A place I do call home - my spiritual home. 

In the I wander thro' each charter'd street,

Near where the charter'd Thames does flow. 

And mark in every face I meet

Marks of weakness, marks of woe. 

And I get it. London is loud and dirty and smelly and underfunded.

But it's home. 

And I am home. 

London is a balm.

I know how to get around. Riding the tube is like riding a bike - you ease into the human soup of despair and get on with it. The old lines are looking and feeling tired, particularly when you compare it to the newer lines like the Jubilee extension and the Elizabeth lines (when it's running). 

Yesterday, I had a moment of sanctuary. On arriving in Bloomsbury, before the aborted attempt to meet up with my friend, I went for a walk. 

I needed a bit of a sit down and some quiet time, so I went and looked around the district. There were quiet looking pubs and cafes, but none looked right. 

Then there was this church. St George the Martyr Bloomsbury. A Victorian church. Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath were married in there. It's mentioned in Dickins and the chimneysweep's church.  Somewhat stoic and plain compared to a lot of the churches around here, it's Victoria simplicity was welcome. The door was open. I went in. There was an exhibition of the paintings of Charlie Mackesy, author of The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse. 

I must have looked wrecked. 

I thought there was a little cafe in there - a lot of little churches do this. Approaching the woman at the desk, I asked if they did coffee and if I could have a sit down for a bit. Churches are a great place to go and have a sit and think. 

They offered to get me a cup of tea, and I was ushered in. 

Hot tip - nobody makes a cup of tea like the British. 

About half an hour later, I went out, asking where I could pay for the tea.

No payment. No need. She told me I looked like I needed a break, and she was pleased to provide succour. 

This is a big city. People are often harried and harangued. It was very humbling. The fellow said that I was welcome to give a donation - but as London is almost cashless now all I had in my purse was a five dollar note Australian. 

I promised the guy that I would pay his kindness forward. 

It will happen. 

Sanctuary is a wonderful thing. 

So now I'm about to head off to Paris. I've had my final prawn sandwich washed down with a bottle of Purdeys (IYKYK). Part of me wants to find a packet of Nice and Spicy Nic Nacs and a Topic bar for the train, but I don't need that. I'm trying to keep as much sugar out of my diet at the moment. 

Walking 15,000 steps a day is already making my body feel amazing. My sleep will regulate - no sleeping tablet last night - too much alcohol to take one safely. 

I've done next to nothing cultural while I've been here, yet it's been great to reconnect with friends. Really, I need a good month in Britain - maybe go around to far lying places, go on a cathedral cruise, visit far flung friends, investigates mountains and castles and lochs. 

We dare to dream. 

Today's song: