People here are already bundled up in thick coats and scarves, and there’s a Christmas tree with an ice rink around it by the Albert and Victoria Museum. Not that it surprises any of you (and I’m going to get an “I told you so” about this), but I didn’t pack appropriately for November in Europe. I should have packed flannel pajamas, Christmas sweaters, and fuzzy boots. And I forgot an umbrella of course (the word “forgot” is used loosely here, I don’t own an umbrella).
From my hotel room which may be the only occupied one in this wing of the building, despite the dismal view into an empty alleyway, I can hear the bells chime the hour at St. Paul’s. I don’t pay attention to them, despite their solemnity, because as far as I’m concerned, it’s always evening here.
It’s London and it’s fall. The City doesn’t care whether or not you have seasonal affective disorder or how warm you’d rather be. It doesn’t care that you’d like more natural light because you’d like to capture the streets in all their dank glory. It’s London and it’s fall.