Sometimes around this year last year, I was eagerly planning my winter holidays – not the normal/Christmas season but rather the one week off I would be getting in February. Destination: London, a.k.a. my second home. I could barely hold in my excitement knowing that I’d be going back, albeit for a short time, after more than a year of absence. I was looking forward to walking down the streets of London and getting lost as the geographer in me usually does, having hot chocolate at my favourite coffee shop on Fleet Street and see the new tiger territory at London Zoo. None of that happened, other than the getting lost part – I tend to manage that pretty well without trying too much. I had to rearrange my plans when my flight got delayed (that’s the short version, I’ll write about it at some point, maybe) and when the ex-boyfie, a.k.a the-douche-who-I-thought-was-the-love-of-my-life-then-and-with-whom-I-was-in-a-long-distance-relationship – if you’re reading this, well I’m not apologising – decided at the last minute to come down to London from the far North for some cuddly couple time.
We went along with his to-go-to list rather than mine which was more of a where-and-what-to-eat list. His argument was: we couldn’t just stuff ourselves all day long. I should have known then and there he wasn’t a keeper. Just for the record, I did end up stuffing myself all day long either way, so win!