What do I miss?

I miss the hustle and bustle. I miss the people, swarming and buzzing, going about their daily lives. I miss brushing past someone and automatically saying sorry, I miss the armpit in my face at rush hour on the tube, I miss the thrill of running through the carriage doors just as they swoosh shut. I miss the smugness of getting the last seat. I miss getting annoyed at slow walkers. I miss the fluttering in my heart when my bus crosses over the Thames, and the city’s skyline looms majestically into view. I miss sitting at the top of the double-decker, and feeling like you’re on top of the world. I miss the lights at night, shining like reassuring beams from zillions of lighthouses guiding you through choppy waters. I miss stumbling back after a nightout through deserted streets with only the foxes for company. I miss pub quizzes, libraries, books shops, art exhibitions, markets, and hunting in charity shops. I miss lying on the grass in a park doused in spring sunshine. I miss pigeons. I miss rowdy dinners with old friends, I miss dancing in a club packed with people and throbbing with music, I miss making new friends in bathroom queues. I miss the promise of a free weekend and the freedom to do anything I want.

I miss hearing the tinkle of the piano at Tottenham Court Road Station. I miss stroking strangers’ dogs in the park. I miss complaining about the Hammersmith and City Line taking forever. I miss hand shakes, high-fives, and hugging my friends. I miss proper coffee, and chatting to my local barista. I miss walking down the street and hearing three different languages being spoken. I miss going round to my friend’s flat after a bad day to eat pasta, drink wine, and listen to Joni Mitchell. I miss people-watching through the café window. I miss impromptu karaoke sessions. I miss golden evenings when people spill out of pubs onto the pavements. I miss not worrying if I’m standing two metres away from the nearest person, or if we’ll have enough toilet roll to last the week. I miss fully-stocked supermarket shelves. I miss watching the news when the word ‘Coronavirus’ was never mentioned. I miss not feeling that tightening knot of dread in my stomach when an ambulance siren wails in the distance, or when another digit is added to the death toll. I miss not getting anxious when my mum or dad starts to cough.

I miss the little things and the big things. The things that usually make my toes curl, and the things that make my heart leap with joy. The things I normally take for granted. Mostly, I miss London when it was pulsating with life – how it should be – but also how it made me feel. Alive.

A pause button has been pressed on our fast-paced world. I can’t deny it has been nice to hear the birds sing and to see a sky swept clear of planes. And yes, there are moments when I feel like I’m on house arrest; waiting with baited breath for the moment our shackles are lifted. The uncertainty of the future feels like some sort of purgatory. But this lockdown has been a time to reflect, to reassess our lives, to think about what is really important.

If one good thing comes out of this pandemic (apart from the outpouring of appreciation for the NHS and key workers, and better levels of hygiene), it is the realisation that this city – this concrete jungle that I have had a tumultuous love/hate relationship with for the past five years – has become entwined with my identity. It’s people, it’s culture, it’s openness, even it’s greyness, has crept into my heart and wedged itself inside. I know I am lucky; it can be a cruel city for some.

Now, I am 70 miles away, quarantined with my family in the village where I grew up. I find myself yearning for London like a long-distance lover. I don’t know when I’ll see it next. But I know it’ll still be there. It’s inhabitants getting on with life like they always do; making me proud to call myself a Londoner.