Last year about this time, fancy and I make a trek out to the suburbs to meet up with our only truly english friends in England, which in itself is a sad admission. Upon returning from where the commuter rail takes you, I got so violently ill as I have never experienced before. No bolivian water or Egyptian Nile fish had been able to keep me in such a spell for so long.
Last Thursday we did our annual pilgrimage to the burbs and now I am sitting on the couch, the window open, feeling the breeze of the very first and potentially last spring day in London, agonizing whether to bother with Day Nurse or just skip right ahead to Night Nurse. It's a different kind of sick, but I think it's official: I am destined to live in large polluted cities, where real estate prices barely allow you more than a studio flat, where the sheer mass of other bodies gobble up the germs, where dogs must trade a backyard for your shoulders and where I get to live in peace.
At least it's the shortest day of the year.
1 comment:
damn. that's rough.
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