Before I greet you with my usual 'good evening' or 'good afternoon' I want to begin this post by asking you a question. What is the nicest time of day? Everyone may have a different answer to that question, but my answer is approximately 8:30pm. Okay, that may be biased because I just walked home at approximately 8:30pm and was blown away by what that time of day has to offer, but I do have my reasons.
8:30pm, on a hot day like today, is the time when the Earth is beginning to come to a standstill. I witnessed this from the moment I stumbled from the train onto the platform. Instantly, the sticky remains of the breath of commuters in the air engulfed me and I choked my way out of the station and into an empty car park. Whilst walking down the winding street to my house I noticed how magical 8:30pm is.
The street was bathed in a golden glow. Literally. The windows of houses glittered as I passed each one, the setting sun reflecting in them as if to highlight each individual house and provide them with more beauty than they usually offer to onlookers. As I strolled past each house, I took a deep breath. I was greeted by the scent of the household's dinner.
It surprised me how much these wonderful smells could help to paint a picture of the interior of each house and the family who lived inside. The strong fragrance of samosas cradled one house and gave me the impression that brightly coloured saris were worn by each female family member. That incense burned in the corner of the living room as the family set the table for dinner, muttering to each other in a foreign tongue which would sound so beautiful and mystical to someone who could not speak it, such as myself.
The next house's scent caused my stomach to rumble and I had to stick out my tongue to moisten my dry lips. Roast dinner. I imagined an old couple living comfortably, the husband sat with his feet up on a plump armchair, the wife batting his feet away and muttering under her breath whilst attempting to carry a dish of roast potatoes onto the table. The husband would grumble and switch off the television programme he was watching, joining his wife for a meal in silence; the silence conjuring thoughts from the two which they would share later as they sat on the sofa together.
As you can tell, my mind wanders too often and I find myself constructing a small world in which these imaginary people live.
8:30pm seemed to stretch on as I continued down the road, admiring the blush forming across the landscape around me as the golden glow sunk into a auburn red, worthy enough to be compared to the magnificently deep colour of rooibos tea (a favourite of mine, also known as red bush tea). The world was preparing to settle down and begin to fall asleep, the streets nearly empty of people except for the rare wanderer like myself, doubting that the world would ever come to life again after witnessing it so still and fragile looking.
I could talk about London now for hours. I haven't even begun to tell you about my trip and yet I have already written more than is necessary for one day. I could ramble on about how nobody notices the tops of the buildings in the city which seem to hold more mystery than the oblivious flurry of people on the streets below. I could lecture you on how delightful it is to receive snippets of conversations from people on the tube and how I try to weave them together to form a story which clashes in a magical cacophony. (Please feel free to google that word, I just discovered it now and am enthralled by how pretty it is.)
You don't need to hear any of that. If you want to experience London the only thing you can do is go there yourself. London is the most appallingly beautiful place I have ever been, and no matter how many times you venture out onto the streets of chaos, you always seem to discover something new.
I will leave it at that. I would like to apologise for how badly written and disorganised this post is, however I am too tired to look over it and would rather sleep it off and wake up tomorrow in horror of what I have written. I hope you all sleep well, my beautiful readers.
Ayesha x
The street was bathed in a golden glow. Literally. The windows of houses glittered as I passed each one, the setting sun reflecting in them as if to highlight each individual house and provide them with more beauty than they usually offer to onlookers. As I strolled past each house, I took a deep breath. I was greeted by the scent of the household's dinner.
It surprised me how much these wonderful smells could help to paint a picture of the interior of each house and the family who lived inside. The strong fragrance of samosas cradled one house and gave me the impression that brightly coloured saris were worn by each female family member. That incense burned in the corner of the living room as the family set the table for dinner, muttering to each other in a foreign tongue which would sound so beautiful and mystical to someone who could not speak it, such as myself.
The next house's scent caused my stomach to rumble and I had to stick out my tongue to moisten my dry lips. Roast dinner. I imagined an old couple living comfortably, the husband sat with his feet up on a plump armchair, the wife batting his feet away and muttering under her breath whilst attempting to carry a dish of roast potatoes onto the table. The husband would grumble and switch off the television programme he was watching, joining his wife for a meal in silence; the silence conjuring thoughts from the two which they would share later as they sat on the sofa together.
As you can tell, my mind wanders too often and I find myself constructing a small world in which these imaginary people live.
8:30pm seemed to stretch on as I continued down the road, admiring the blush forming across the landscape around me as the golden glow sunk into a auburn red, worthy enough to be compared to the magnificently deep colour of rooibos tea (a favourite of mine, also known as red bush tea). The world was preparing to settle down and begin to fall asleep, the streets nearly empty of people except for the rare wanderer like myself, doubting that the world would ever come to life again after witnessing it so still and fragile looking.
I could talk about London now for hours. I haven't even begun to tell you about my trip and yet I have already written more than is necessary for one day. I could ramble on about how nobody notices the tops of the buildings in the city which seem to hold more mystery than the oblivious flurry of people on the streets below. I could lecture you on how delightful it is to receive snippets of conversations from people on the tube and how I try to weave them together to form a story which clashes in a magical cacophony. (Please feel free to google that word, I just discovered it now and am enthralled by how pretty it is.)
You don't need to hear any of that. If you want to experience London the only thing you can do is go there yourself. London is the most appallingly beautiful place I have ever been, and no matter how many times you venture out onto the streets of chaos, you always seem to discover something new.
I will leave it at that. I would like to apologise for how badly written and disorganised this post is, however I am too tired to look over it and would rather sleep it off and wake up tomorrow in horror of what I have written. I hope you all sleep well, my beautiful readers.
Ayesha x
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