Three o’clock

Three o’clock. Three o’clock is always too late or too early for anything you want to do.

A peculiar moment in the afternoon. Today is intolerable.

I’m in the garden looking a the same boring pale Londoner sky and I think about what happen if I would be a famous writer instead of working in event marketing from 9am to 5pm every day.

I’d like to write but I don’t really know how to do it.

I try to take here and there what I like but I know that I’m too insicure to stand for my ideas. I would be too insicure to put out there my real name because I’m scared to be judged.

I’m thinking about this while I’m looking at the sky hoping for little bit of sun in this boring English summer.

I hate the English summer. The English summer is like an unreliable guy. It’s sunny but while you ready to go out is windy and grey again. Like that guy that invite you out for dinner and he’s texting you just a couple of hours earlier to say he got stuck at work with something urgent to do.

I hate the English summer because I never know what to wear and I’m always uncomfortable in my own clothes.

I’m Italian, the summer is one of those things you know for sure it will come and when is there it’s sunny and warm for at least three months.

I’m laying on my chair in the back garden looking at the sky feeling the scent of the lavande plants. Thinking that  I will probably not going to move for the rest of the day.

I’m thinking about how much I love and hate this city. I came here long time ago, I lived for three years and run away, and I came back again.

I love and hate London because of the people. The people here are not warm, they’ re polite. But when it counts they’re something better that polite, they’ re kind. They’re always helping you with your big suitcase in the tube, even during the rush hours. Or let you jump the queue if you’re crying. Or let you pee when you even didn’t buy something. Giving you directions just because you look lost. Everyone gets darlingcalled. And I mean everyone. If you have a vagina, by birth or by choice you will be called darling in the way that it will never sound sexist.

While I was thinking non- sense the phone rang it’s Rosie, she wants to go out, I don’t.

I will be here for the rest of the day writing non sense about London.