covent garden, passing through

I never go to Covent Garden anymore. I study nearby, but I just can’t be bothered - after the day ends I just want to go home. South. I don’t have time for wandering around plazas, or ambling along food markets, or shifting through clothes I just can’t afford.

I never go to Covent Garden anymore, but I remember when I did. Back in my Bloomsbury days it was a staple: the nights out in nice pubs, the trips to the Odeon, the perusal of tiny storefronts sparkling pink and white and blue; then a 19 minute walk and I was home. It was easy. Simple. Done.

I never go to Covent Garden anymore, except for today. I went there today. Just for a bit. Just walked through it - under its golden lights, over its cobbled streets, past its wooden pub-fronts: the shelves inside are lined with bottles, glowing ochre and orange, inviting me in. It’s beautiful. It’s haunting. It’s my year-and-a-half Bloomsbury life, right here in front of me, right here, all over again.

I never go to Covent Garden anymore. Unless it's in the way. Unless I'm just passing through.