Sometimes the Greatest Loves of Our Lives Aren't People (or Even Dogs)
What I loved most couldn’t be kept, only returned to...
Over the past few weeks, I’ve felt deeply happy—in my surroundings, in myself, in my family, in the people closest to me. In life, really. But that happiness has come with an unexpected slice of sadness I’ve struggled to articulate. Maybe even a sliver of guilt.
Sadness and guilt aren’t the most likely bedfellows with happiness. But anyone who calls two places “home” will understand: this is the price we pay for branching out in this world.
You can only physically exist in one location, but your heart tells a different story. I’ll be walking down the dock here in South Carolina, feeling the sun beat on my shoulders, the sound of marsh birds and rushing water in my ears—and suddenly, I’m longing for Portobello Road. For a chocolate croissant in one hand and a coffee in the other. For the kind of friends who’ve become family. A perfect moment here gets hijacked by the feeling that my feet should be elsewhere.
I know this will never fully go away. And there’s more to say—so much more. But for now, I wanted to share something from the archives. In 2021, just as we were coming out of the pandemic, very much in recovery mode as a city, I wrote a love letter to London, my home.
As you’ll read, it was during that time I realised some of our greatest romances aren’t with people at all. Mine, after 22 years in London, was with the city itself.
What follows was written on November 4th, 2021, from my flat in West London—at this desk, with this view…