It's 8 p.m...do you know where your sun is?

Notice how dark it's getting so suddenly? I always want to escape at this time of year, if only briefly. So a few weeks ago I bought some tickets to London, city of my birth (figuratively). I'll leave on Friday after work, skirt in a great arc north over Duluth, city of my birth (literally) to Iceland, where hopfully I won't have to spend more than an hour in that god-forsaken land of volcanic darkness before the opal greenwich meantime opens its eye. Good old London. Roy has promised to meet me at Paddington with a cab. It's his fortieth birthday party this Saturday, so expect the Veuve to flow like the Thames. I can't wait. I have a new pair of converse all stars, bright white and clean canvas, to scuff up and dirty-fy in the scum and spit and grime of slippery London cobbles. I can't hardly sleep at night these days...I lay awake and dream of rooftop swimming pools, Regents Park strolls, spliffs in Tonbridge, council-flat chav-watching and decadent pauses. Popstars and Kettners and Oscars.