One day I woke up on the thick spring grass. Wet under the early morning dew. Not enough sleep. A hectic night in Britain's capital. How did I get here? I had questioned myself. Beams of the sunlight struck down onto my face. Eyes battled the sky. I was blind for the moment. Rolled over and hid away from the early morning yellow spear. Stumbled up onto my feet like an old man. Not long until I get there. Johnny was still fast asleep. Laying there comfortably on the soft wet soil. Woke him up with the palm of my hand as I touched his arm. Dazed and confused he looked but he was not surprised. Without a word, we walked towards the entrance of the park gates. Side by side in synchronisation. The pathway was littered with dirt, small broken branches and random grey pebble stones.
The charcoal-black steal gate was shut and locked. A flash of memory. We had climbed over the forbidden portal during the night. No reason for understand why we had done such a thing. Everything seems like a good reason when the drinks encourage the creative ways and let loose the mind. Live a little adventure. Worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.
London with little patches of blue between shades of grey. The warm summer season was not far off. The people on the street had presented themselves very cheerfully compared to a normal day in The Square Mile; When the sky is grey, the people can be rather rude and dull. The scent of depression spreads from one to another. Londoners can be very gleeful when the sun has permission to shine. The underground tube is different. It remains the same soulless scent endlessly choking everyone who relies on the tube. Johnny wasn't feeling too well on the tube towards Old Street station. Either did I. Our stomach was running on empty. No need to panic. The hung-over hunger was eating itself alive. I sat with my elbows on my knees and rested them there, in between two strangers in suits with my pulsating head thumping in my hands, riding in motion.
Eight million freaking people in one place. The London underground in organised chaos. Moving fast like ants; working for the pound and working for the almighty Queen of the Buckingham Palace. I stood on the moving staircase. Rising up vertically. I felt a cool breeze blowing towards me from the outside, pushing its way down into the station. I felt slightly better. Too many people were bumping and bruising my right shoulder as they marched rapidly up the express lane. I moved my body sideways. Johnny reached for a cigarette from his jacket pocket and I asked him politely for one.
Standing on the busy Old Street, the lighter was low on gas. Too much effort to ask a stranger for a light. I gave the blue Bic a good shake and tried again. A little flame had appeared and I sucked on that yellow butt hard and inhaled every particle I could into my lungs. The tip of the white stick had caught some life and it was burning steadily. Johnny stole some of the cherry and was satisfied a few seconds later. He made some words with his Geordie accent. I had no strength in me to ask him to repeat the words again slowly. Send me a text later I said to him poorly. We departed our separate ways as the sky returned to its natural image.
The key to the front door of the flat would not comply with the lock. This was not the first time that it had happened. After a few attempts, the Canadian roommate opened the door from the inside with a jump. He was on the way to his nine to five torture. Jerome was in the kitchen when I had walked in, sitting at the table with his laptop and breakfast. Hello, how are you? He asked me with a joyful pommie tone. I had responded to him with a simple one word answer; Fine. I don't think he honestly cared. He was just being polite. Jerome was always in front of his Mac. I had always wonder if he still a virgin at the age of twenty-seven. His eyes were always looking at the screen. A lonely guy in the real world. I did not have much to eat. I ate my toast with a strawberry spread in front of him. It was enough to kill the growling sound and made some tea as well before I went up, into my tiny shoe box room.
Slowly drinking my tea on my mattress, in front of the only poster that I had ever owned during my stay in London. A big glamour's portrait of the famous Marilyn Monroe in black and white. I truly believe we could have been real good friends, if only we had met in the same time line. I closed the window curtains and slipped under the thick blanket. I looked at my Marilyn for one last time. Six and half minutes later, I had finally closed my eyes and came to the conclusion, if you can sleep comfortably on wet grass, London is not a bad place at all...