snub.

Dear London,

We need to talk. Last night you had me in bed by 11:30pm. Now, I don’t know what kind of thoughts are running through your debauchery-ridden mind, but before I start getting some sort of horrid, reprehensible reputation, I need to set the record straight. You really should know that I’m just not that kind of girl.

11:30pm on a Saturday and I’m back in for the night. Hair in a ponytail, dressed in my silk sheep-print pajamas, propped up against a pile of merlot pillows, reading through my emails and sipping tea. Of course, just to ensure that I get the full effect of you and your pal the universe giving me the finger, I seem to have email upon email of ‘wish you were’ messages touting shopping, patios, swimming, cocktails, and the like, accompanied by a series of text messages popping up throughout the night, with the kind of progressive misspellings and incohereny indicative of a wild night at the Blue Bamboo.

I know you’re commonly known as an “insider’s city,” but really, darling, it’s been almost eight months. Aren’t you ready to let me in yet? This tea sipping, correspondence on weekends just won’t do anymore. I have no interest in hearing the mocking and pitying drawls of, “it’s so nice to have those weekends sometimes”. Yes, it is admittedly very nice sometimes, and those times are more commonly grouped together and referred to as “retirement”.

A recent chat with a friend who doesn’t live in the U.K., but periodically passes through on business cemented how much you’re shunning me, London. “So what are we going to do when I’m in town?” says the friend. A slight wave of panic washes over me. “Shopping?” I tentatively suggest, as his penchant for Hermes ties flashes through my mind. Friend proceeds to excitedly rattle off his list of preferred Bond Street and Mayfair boutiques and I listen thoughtfully. “Maybe you should be showing me around” I meekly suggest. This seems to be well received, and the next thing I know I’m being recommended the hot new Japanese steakhouse in town. Although I don’t eat meat, I’m assured the chef will be willing to whip up something for me. At this point I’m hanging my head in shame. Shouldn’t I be making these suggestions instead of frantically trying to jot all this down onto a post-it note with chocolate brown eyeliner?

A few weeks ago, an acquaintance passing through town en route to Europe tells me about her friends who have just moved to my corner of the city. They can't join us for Pad Thai in Portabello Road because they’re dining at Nobu in Canary Wharf. I self-consciously rub my forehead, where I’m sure the slight tingling can be attributed to the words “social pariah” which have been imprinted there with a cattle branding iron.

Since arriving, I seem to have become destined to be your pathetic tag-along. The girl whose social life has all the sparkle and lustre of the gently-battered lace ballet flats she steps into for schlepping around the city when it seems wasteful to bother with pretty shoes. After all, if a four inch black patent Steve Madden heel clicks on the cobblestones and no one’s around, does it make a sound?

London, my darling, I’m more than a little disheartened by you constantly pulling the velvet rope closed in front of me and leaving me out in the cold. Rather, I would be, if I were close enough to the velvet rope to be able to see it. Although, I’m sure one of my out of town friends could inform me of its precise location.

Disheartened as I am, I’m not quite ready to give up on you yet. However, if I’m not too busy and preoccupied with a rigorous social agenda to be penning you an entirely different letter in the coming months, and our troubles with intimacy haven’t dissipated, I fear we may be destined to part ways.

Let me in, or I’m getting the hell out.

Sincerely,

Snubbed, disgruntled, and in bed drinking tea.