Dear London
Still loving, despite the cold
London, dear London, I have returned. It is cold, it is crowded with people chasing Christmas spirit, it is pitch black by 4 pm. My tropical blood took some days to adjust, the layers of clothes itched, I wore socks for the first time in ages, and I have been wearing gloves.
People sing Christmas carols on the street, bells are being rung, the lights are dazzling. London is bursting at the seams with people, the Thames is swollen and full, pregnant with possibility. The trees, with leaves shed, look like skeletons, arms raised to the sky. There is live music, spoken word poetry, theatre, dance, every night, somewhere. The tube is full at 11 pm. Commuters, tired with the toil of work and travel, haul themselves on and off trains, returning home just to sleep and then start again tomorrow. I saw a woman on the tube with a hockey stick, her evening written in lines on her face. A good tired.
Book shops pull me in like giant magnets, the displays like a candy shop, enticing, words asking to be read.
Museums are like church, I stand before a monument to nature in oil, watercolour, plaster and stone. I walk through arches, run my hand across ancient stone, notice blue plaques and wonder, “Who was that?”
One evening, walking home late, I caught sight of a fox crossing the road, large, orange, bushy-tailed. It stopped and looked me straight in the eye. We communed, and then she moved off. Wild thing.
A few months back, there was a Letters to London competition, an invitation to tell London how this great and pulsing city has touched us. I missed the deadline, but I thought I would share mine here. A love letter, of sorts, to my original home, my London.
Dear London,
I first set foot on your paved, tree-lined streets when I was three years old. My father had just died, and we came over from South Africa for a brief visit to find haven in my grandparents’ house. I recall seeing a hedgehog from the bedroom window. London, you were all flowers, gardens, warm hugs, chocolate buttons and comfort. We moved into your northern suburbs when I was 4, and our house had a long lawn that ended in a large pond. Later, when we moved abroad, you were for summers, fancy dress drives in the back of Grandad’s car around Buckingham Palace pretending to be princesses, a fairy tale, a place in my imagination where I could be anyone I wanted. You became a dream. An idea. All trains led into your pulsing heart, Waterloo, the name tripping like sparks off my tongue, inviting me, on weekend breaks from boarding school, towards a temporary, delicious pleasure. It could only be you for University, nowhere else would do, so, finally, fresh-faced and eager, 18 and ready to fall, I moved as a university student, and the fantasy became real. You became mine. I fell in love, both with London and with a boy and long afternoons in the pub, walks in Shepherd’s Market, or aimless bus rides became the norm. I walked away from you in 1993 and moved to Canada, only coming back for brief visits. Until now. After turning my back on you, the love affair resumes, this time, with eyes that look back and forward, a melange of nostalgia and discovery of what’s new. There is a Welsh word, Hiraeth, that is hard to translate. It describes a deep sense of longing, nostalgia, and yearning for a home or time that no longer exists, or perhaps never was. It’s homesickness tinged with grief and sadness for a lost or departed past, combined with a wistful desire to return. London, you are that for me now. When I return, I am transported back to my youth, to a time of promise and spark. But I am not the same, and neither are you. We have grown in parallel, you showing up in sparkling, sharp skyscrapers and new trains, and for me, the history of days live in my skin and heart. But what is the same is your grand but subtle beauty, the soft greens, the ancient oaks, the history that oozes out of your walls. The Bakerloo line remains the same, I sit on the same creaky seats, but soon, that will also change. Because, London, you are all flux and flow, a wavering mutability, keeping time, showing time. Hatchards smells the same: dust, glue and paper, as does the V&A. I can stand before paintings that have always been there, walk down pavements with the same cracks as always. Feel the squeaky creak of an old bus as I climb the stairs and hope for a seat at the very front. Waterloo Sunset by the Kinks makes me think back to those Saturday mornings when I would escape from boarding school and walk out, past the arches where the homeless lived. I took the Thames for granted then; now I look for its tides, moving me back and forth, under the very same moon—London, where time folds like the branches of a Plane Tree. You will always be where I turned from girl to woman, from friend to lover, where my heart was broken and mended. Where love was born: Art, life, light.
Love, Samantha
I’m taking a little break to cuddle with family and eat, drink and be merry. I’ll be back in the New Year. 2026! Wishing you all a happy and warm holiday season. Thank you for reading Notes from the Middle this year. I love having you beside me in this funny, messy world. Sam x
❤️thank you for brightening my inbox with your words xx