The whole ‘sun not going down until 9pm’ thing. It’s new.
In Shanghai, the sun never stayed out past 8pm. It obeyed the Party principles and politely oscillated between 6pm and 8pm year round. You could watch the sunset from the Funkadeli patio most nights, sipping a SuperSpritz and catching the incandescent festoon lights lights flicker on, by the time Happy Hour was coming to an end.
But then I moved to London, and in truth, I never thought so much about the sun until I got here.
The thing is… the thing is. Most of the time, the sky is a grey, milky reminder that Life Sucks and Then You Die. When the sun finally comes out, most people don’t really know what to do with themselves.
As soon as it’s sunny is on a weekend, I get an immediate urge to sit outside in a park, day drink, and pretend I’m on a beach. The pubs are full. Peole are laying out in bikinis in 70ºF weather (and some nudists too, in London Fields). The banks of the Thames have people sitting on every surface of the Embankment. It’s like the sun is a finite resources and we’re all mining the Bitcoin of natural light, or something.
Today, I had to spend the afternoon cleaning, because the flat is a mess and I haven’t changed my bedsheets in like three weeks. But then, the entire time, I’m looking outside at the sun longingly, as if I’m a long-lost Bridgerton sister at Lady Danbury’s. I abandoned laundry and went to the Curve Garden for about 45 minutes to read, because I can’t shake this feeling that if I’m not outside on one of the good days, then I’ve somehow squandered the entire day.
It’s this weird London feeling that you truly be satisfied until you’ve bought a £5 latte and walked around the Camden Passage.But then, who’s going to do the laundry?
I’m writing this at 8:57pm and the sky is still blue.
Leave a Reply