It echoes how I feel about London and why moving out (emigrating outside London) wasn’t as big a wrench as I thought it would be.
The city is full of ghosts for me. The spirits of dead and ex friends, dates I went on, relationships I was in, meals I ate, concerts I went to, exhibitions I saw, raves I sweated in and parties I went to, haunt every corner.
Some areas are totally unrecognisable. I don’t even know where Kensington Market was anymore.
Some areas are effectively pastiches of themselves - like Portabello or even, tragically, much of China Town.
Enough of the London I remember still exists to make trips there meaningful, but it is still an eerie feeling.
And of course in a city as huge, sprawling and diverse as London, there is always more to discover.
But my unbridled joy at the freedom I felt getting my first travel card at 11 is tempered by a sense of melancholy. Maybe this is just what getting old is like.
This was so moving, thank you. I was in Holborn today and felt a similar loss, it was lunches at Davey’s Wine Bar for us. (All of London littered with remembered meals, to misquote MacNeice.)
This piece shook me. I read it with tears in my eyes and a smile on my lips. It captures so perfectly how food isn’t just food—it’s memory, it’s connection, it’s love. I had someone like that too—someone who chose the places, who knew where the best spots were, who turned every meal into a ritual. He’s gone now, but when I walk past those places, I feel like he’s still with me. “We should appreciate the moment while we have it”—I’ll carry that thought with me. Thank you for turning grief into something so beautiful and true.
This was beautiful. It prompted so many memories of meals at different stages of my life with friends of old and my husband and girls. Our lives have centred around food and food events - especially when my girls were little as it was an easy “activity” . It’s lovely hearing them sometimes remember these food places when we’re out and about and I love the idea of thinking about them as ghosts that still linger.
I loved this.
It echoes how I feel about London and why moving out (emigrating outside London) wasn’t as big a wrench as I thought it would be.
The city is full of ghosts for me. The spirits of dead and ex friends, dates I went on, relationships I was in, meals I ate, concerts I went to, exhibitions I saw, raves I sweated in and parties I went to, haunt every corner.
Some areas are totally unrecognisable. I don’t even know where Kensington Market was anymore.
Some areas are effectively pastiches of themselves - like Portabello or even, tragically, much of China Town.
Enough of the London I remember still exists to make trips there meaningful, but it is still an eerie feeling.
And of course in a city as huge, sprawling and diverse as London, there is always more to discover.
But my unbridled joy at the freedom I felt getting my first travel card at 11 is tempered by a sense of melancholy. Maybe this is just what getting old is like.
This was so moving, thank you. I was in Holborn today and felt a similar loss, it was lunches at Davey’s Wine Bar for us. (All of London littered with remembered meals, to misquote MacNeice.)
This piece shook me. I read it with tears in my eyes and a smile on my lips. It captures so perfectly how food isn’t just food—it’s memory, it’s connection, it’s love. I had someone like that too—someone who chose the places, who knew where the best spots were, who turned every meal into a ritual. He’s gone now, but when I walk past those places, I feel like he’s still with me. “We should appreciate the moment while we have it”—I’ll carry that thought with me. Thank you for turning grief into something so beautiful and true.
This was beautiful. It prompted so many memories of meals at different stages of my life with friends of old and my husband and girls. Our lives have centred around food and food events - especially when my girls were little as it was an easy “activity” . It’s lovely hearing them sometimes remember these food places when we’re out and about and I love the idea of thinking about them as ghosts that still linger.