the locals smile and say hello,
regardless of whether they know
your name or what it is you do.
London seems unsuitable,
people frown wherever you go.
Tension is high, patience is low,
commuters tut and charge into you.
Village life feels lush and green,
even when it's wet and grey.
A teapot keeps the cold at bay,
biscuits melt with drizzling cream.
London often feels unclean,
cobwebs blow fresh air away.
Programmed staff in a chained cafe
pipe muzak on a soulless stream.
On Friday night the tide is turned,
the village yawns and hibernates.
It's time to party with my mates
in London Bridge and Leicester Square.
and a train to King's Cross now awaits.
The journey is long but just creates
more lust for letting down my hair.
The dancefloor is hot, location-free,
there's a carnival across the Strand.
Sleazy Soho is a one-night stand
for those who dabble with no regret.
The village pub entices me,
with a Sunday roast and a local band.
Retirement there is loosely planned
but I'm not ready for that yet.
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