I think it was somewhere in between eating the discarded pasta from last night when I woke up and getting halfway through the series of the weak shitcom I was watching that it became very clear I had to stop this pattern. I had not really got out of bed for 1 1/2 days, the pile of Evening Standards I'd taken home has been getting increasingly higher (because I must re-read that article about that interesting artist, which I never do), made slightly higher by the pizza boxes that have been there for a week. I was rejecting invitations to go out, even the half-hearted one at 9.30pm yesterday for a drink (I had fully resigned to my bed by then).
I had just about given up on the day, and decided to ring my cousin to see what her plans were that week - she invited me over. I went over there a couple of hours later and after a pleasant evening of chat and abusing her contacts book, walked to the tube station. I was out there again: tasting the air, pounding the street with my faux worker boots, tapping my oyster card on the reader with a flourish and praying I didn't mis-time my entrance and walk into the barrier, eying the tube passengers and looking away when I made eye contact and ignoring the canoodling couple a few seats away making noises that made me increasingly nauseated and grateful that I was getting off at the next stop.
Finally, I’m ready to embrace London once more - life goes on.
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