My London

As the plane approached Heathrow, green fields duly materialised and a whole decade came back to me:

the virgin discovery of the seasons,

the walking,

cars being driven by no one,

no wait, the driver is sitting on the other side,

the marathon shifts,

the 06.30 waits at bus stops in torrential rain,

the 06.30 waits at bus stops in torrential rain and then missing the only bus for that hour because the book was too engrossing,

the snow flakes flying towards my face from all directions, crazy and impossibly beautiful, making one stubbornly-non-morning person very cheerful indeed,

the post-nightshift journey home on a Sunday morning and carefully sidestepping vomit on the pavement,

the etiquette of queueing and the painstaking measurement of personal space,

the agony of giving birth au naturel because centuries of medical advancement have taught us it's best to demedicalise labour,

the joy of baby music lessons,

slugs,

spiders,

foxes crossing the road,

getting chased out of a park by a territorial squirrel,

planting daffodils: pale lemon, powerful saffron,

growing tulips: red like blood, clean like cream, black!

wondering who your neighbour voted for, and knowing you can't just ask,

engineering works,

delays and cancellations,

roadworks: a cabbie protesting: 'they're always doing something!

'A drunk boy on the tube squinting at me and slurring the question: 'who let the nuns out?'

trying not to smile but failing because it's too damn funny,

coexisting with rain,

Islamists living off the system then trashing the country,

desperately wannabe-westerners,

immigrants willing to do anything it takes to be accepted, respected, tolerated, or merely acknowleged,

7/7,

A big red bus on fire,

the sirens, the terror, the anger, the I-didnt't-do-it,

the shame...

the shame,

Enjoying multi-culturalism,

Enduring multi-culturalism,

fear-inducing austerity measures,

the credit crunch,

the double dip,

the way Brits call raucous, asbo-worthy teanagers 'kids',

the January sale that starts in December,

the July sale that starts in June,

Christmas carols being sung outside my door by strangers dressed in robust red,

the Guardian's Saturday edition.

What a city.

What a decade.