My friend, Priscilla, used to talk to me about London all the time. We'd be sitting in a bar, downing shooters, and she'd remember some arbitrary story from her two years in London. Priscilla could tell a story so you'd think you'd been there with her...
I always imagined I would go to London "sometime soon". Sometime before making a career and raising a family were anything more than faraway blips on the radar.
I was 22 when my first child was born, and I vaguely remember quietly kissing my travelling dreams goodbye. I was 23 and my second baby was 3 months old when I got the phonecall about the accident in which Pricilla had died. She had never met either of my children. I had never made it to London. And so we never got around to really sharing our most important experiences, in spite of having shared a great deal more than many people ever share with anyone at all.
Last night, as I walked through Hyde Park, and this morning as I made my way around the city on the underground, I missed Priscilla and her long, long stories of London.
