admin On August - 17 - 2013

So this summer, after faaaaar too long, I had the opportunity to reconnect with a cousin of mine who lives just outside of London. She was to be the envoy for the European contingent of my family from my mother’s side (really the only family we’re still close to, but that’s another story). It was, of course, brilliant to see her and finally meet her husband and children. But with each reference to life to the splendours of London, I couldn’t help but be envious.

Along with my love of the European lifestyle (hence my decision to live in Montreal, post-Spain), it’s easy to picture myself in the great city. My romanticism with London was inculcated early, since it’s a place my parents spent some of the best years of the life in. My Irish-born mother met my father while nursing in London, and it’s hard to not be enticed by their stories of the time when she and my father fell in love in that great city. I know, I know, it’s a ridiculously romantic (literally and figuratively) account of life over there. And if living in Seville taught me anything (aside from the fact that only idiots live there in August and hauling your own bombona of gas up to a third floor apartment without stairs is decidedly not fun), it’s that living somewhere is inevitably fraught with far more annoyances than you can conjure up in your imagination.

But every time I hear about a public concert there, or a reading, or a new exhibit, I find myself pining. And then there’s the theatre. Oh lord, the theatre…I don’t think I should start on that at the moment, could be here a while.

Best that I grab a cuppa and just remind myself of how ridiculously cheap my rent is here for the fabulous apartment I live in…yes…that’s it…cuppa tea fixes everything…