I walk a little slower [ The art of lingering in streets]

Long stressful day. We stroll in Borough Market. There is pain in my gut. I decide that I do not miss him. I decide that it is quite convenient that I am in a foreign city and I speak to a total stranger about my situation. She offers help.

I eat Vitanemeze food. Splitting headache. I run in the rain. I do not mind the wind. A storm it is, the wind blew the woman from Bangladesh. We decide to head somewhere warm. We walk into the George Inn pub, it is said that Shakespeare and Dickens were regulars. Quite an authentic place. A bartender frowns because one of us was eating an apple. "This is not allowed here Ma'am, you can only eat the food you order from here."

The leftist one in our group judges that this is an elitist place. I think the place inspiring and warm. I have beer. I decide to be social again, why not with this interesting mix from Georgia, Hong Kong, Bulgaria, Saudi Arabia, Botswana, Brazil, Bangladesh, France?

Let's play a game, each sings a song in their native language. I go for ??? ????? (Stand in defiance), an Arabic song about resistance. I distract myself from the pending situation. Interesting bunch. Quite cultured.

PHOTOS! Let's take photos! Let's go for shisha now, you don't know shisha? Oh you do.... you recognize it as Hookah? Westminster stop? Do you know that Big Ben is just above us... and the Parliament? Let's postpone Shisha and walk a bit. The British one designates himself as our guide, gives us the cultural background. Beautiful city. I collect my fallen leaves.

Freezing... I need to numb my head, well, fixate on the cold weather. Finally, Kingston High Street. Underground, bus and then the Irani place. I try to have conversation. Must talk. Not dwell inside my head. As the crowd gets smaller and smaller, I tell the person I confined in (the Saudi) that I am scared. I speak up. A Moroccan tells me I can get it over with on Monday and offers genuine help.

I decide to walk longer on my way back to the hotel. Homeless man sits in the cold. I walk past him. Walk back towards him and strike up conversation. He talks, I sit next to him. He's Irish. He's only been on the streets for two months and a half after some accident. He is a beautiful soul. The last money he made he sent to his two-year old daughter. I wish I could help. I do not have much money on me. He inspires something.

I walk to the underground again, hotel room at last. I decide to message my boyfriend. I will try to get an abortion here.