One Day

What follows is the account of a day. it is not a typical one (thank God!), but still, it represents my life quite well.

I forced myself to get up at 8 am to meet a friend for a quick breakfast before she left for work, because when I’m in Milan I’d do anything to meet my Italian friends and their puppies, even getting up early on a holiday morning. We had breakfast in the little café at the corner between my road and hers, where everybody in the neighbourhood goes and it feels more like a little town than an almost-big city like Milan. My friend paid for both the cappuccino and croissants, with the excuse that “I see you once every four months”. For the record, she paid 5 euros, London watch and learn! We chatted a lot, petted the dog a bit and said goodbye with the promise of meeting in a couple of months. I went home and fought with the bag to make it close, muttering profanities for the whole process, because every time it’s the same old story: add a little dress here, add some prosciutto there and in the end it looks like I’m starting the move all over again!

I went to airport, I rushed through the duty free shops, fearing that only looking at the discounted goods would cause the explosion of my red trolley; I boarded the plane and I felt really smug in finding out that the two seats next to me were free. That allowed me to stretch my legs better than in first class but it did not save me from getting half a panic attack when the plane performed a rather wobbly take off.

I landed in Heathrow, cut through the bowels of the city up to Dalston, half ghetto half hipsterland, I stayed at home long enough to store the prosciutto in the fridge and I went out again to run some errands, while texting another friend to arrange a dinner that same evening. I came back home on a double decker bus while snacking on organic crisps, because when a man is tired of London he is tired of snacks; I unpacked my bags and flooded my new Canadian flatmate with words, because I am chatty and multitasking. I then stormed out of the house again, bearing with me the suspicion that the poor guy will now hide in his room whenever he hears me stepping through the door, I met my friend in Shoreditch where we stuffed our face with Thai noodles, because eating pasta for seven days in a row simply wasn’t enough. We ate a lot, laughed more and exchanged presents, some of them random, some of them for a birthday (mine, happy birthday to me!). Once I came back home, I showered and prepared bag and clothes for the next day, purposefully choosing a colourful blazer, because spring has sprung in England too and the locals are now crowding the sidewalks outside pubs and bars with their pints.



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