I’ve been reading far too many blogs about women who live in tiny apartments in New York with their handsome husbands, and chubby babies. This will explain the pining I have to go back to New York [for longer than 2 weeks], and the inconvenient broodiness. I know that their lives aren’t perfect, but it’s been lovely reading their posts about thrifting in Brooklyn, searching for the perfect cookie in Manhattan, and falling in love with the city so deeply, that waking up every morning feels like Christmas.
The boy and I moved into his mum’s apartment just over a month ago. Although it’s a million miles away from New York, when I’m sat outside on the roof terrace, reading a magazine and drinking my 100th coffee of the day, the piercing sirens, the traffic, and the smell of freshly baked bread, sweet petrol, Indian & Chinese take-out [the apartment is on the back of the high street], all stir together and swirl in the air, making me believe that I could actually be sat out on my roof terrace in Williamsburg, on a street full of restaurants, living next door to the likes of Alexa Chung. So, when the handsome man leaves for work at 8:30, and I’m left alone in this small apartment, I pour myself a coffee, toast a bagel and eat breakfast in the tiny kitchen, pretending that my view out of the window are all equally small apartments, just round the corner from the hustle and bustle of the big apple.
I’m silly, I know.