I believe it was Dr Samuel Johnson who said that when a man tires of London he is tired of life. It's also widely reported that the good doctor was nearly blind and almost entirely deaf.
And so the time comes to go. Well, the time comes to go in exactly 27 days, eight hours and 23 minutes. And while I am thrilled to be on the move again, I can't help but feel prematurely nostalgic about my year and a half in London. Even stepping over the vomit in the doorway to the office this morning had a certain poignant charm.
I'll miss everyone terribley, of course. Not to mention the (free) museums, (free) summer festivals and being able to get scandlously drunk on public transport. I'll miss Sunday pub lunches, the wild parrots of West London and climbing a ladder to get into bed every night. I'll even miss the rain and the Northern Line.
And so, London, I'll leave you with this:
Maybe I didn't love you
Quite as often as I could have
And maybe I didn't treat you
Quite as good as I should have
If I made you feel second best
I'm sorry I was blind
You were always on my mind
You were always on my mind
