At five fifty five this morning my body woke me up, and I switched off the alarm I had carefully set the previous night. I’m mysteriously good at doing that.
An hour later I picked up train tickets from the automated machine on the platform in town, and began the long journey into the heart of London. An hour and a half later I emerged beneath the glass and concrete towers of Canary Wharf, and set off in search of a small Sri Lankan café a co-worker had suggested we meet at. I had arrived half an hour early, so thought I might grab a coffee there while waiting.
It took me half an hour to find the café. Seriously.
Google Maps showed the café marker in the middle of a patch of grass (where it wasn’t), and it’s address pointed towards a location a quarter of a mile away. It wasn’t there either. In desperation it dawned on me that the “patch of grass” might mean “under the ground”. On the second trip under the ground, after reading a second correct address, I found it - and arrived moments before the co-worker that had suggested it.
She had been walking round in circles for twenty minutes looking for it too.
The rest of the day passed without incident - visiting an enormous office, and talking about all manner of projects that might transpire over the coming weeks and months. You’ll no doubt understand why I can’t share any more than that…
I spent much of the journey home scrolling the news on my phone - trying to avoid the torrent of “WTF” stories pouring from America. It was pretty much impossible. I feel sorry for a lot of the people I known in the US - and am struggling to feel sorry for those that voted for what’s happening. The “fck around and find out” lesson is a difficult one to witness without at least feeling something*.
Anyway.
It’s late. It’s been a long day. I should go sleep. Visiting London is always exciting in it’s own way, but returning home always feels like a relief.