It was a litre of liquorice allsorts dissolved in vodka last night. I thought for sure I wouldn’t be waking up from that one, but here I am looking at a table strewn with scribbles. Rolling a tumbler back and forth on its side, the noise is unpleasant but it’s giving me something to fixate on and stave off those midmorning jitters.
Enter Milan
Milan is a big city. A city that will empty you. You are punched by cars, trams, subways, streets, pedestrians, tourists, chancers, bums, tat-sellers, fine women and gorgeous men the second you poke your head into its grey skies.
Sooty ochre and fuchsia buildings line the streets. Precarious balconies overhang the old cobble pavements that meander below. Down the road palatial banks emerge ominously from the serpentine ancient streets. Columned and overbearing, they stand as the bastions of Italian bureaucracy. I pictured myself sat in their marbled hallways shuffling from seat to seat, getting page upon page stamped by unyielding, moustachioed men and heavy set, unhappy women.
Leaving
It’s six o’clock in the morning and the ground is wet. The sun is yet to peak over the horizon and I’m sat on a train with a collection of my possessions. The run-off water skies swirl purple, black and grey as I head to King’s Cross.
Wait
When we in bleakest winter wait,
when rain falls hard,
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