In London.

St. Pancras means Home. If I can see the steeple, I know we're close. The sounds of its bells waft in through my window. I greet the slightly slouchy ladies there each morning.
I carry my tea past plaques commemorating Keats, Dickens and the victims of the 2005 bombings. There are many lovely squares nearby -- Tavistock, Russell, Bloomsbury. It is here that I see my first proper blackbird -- exactly the kind that one would bake into a pie.

We inch our way through crowded Borough Market, past mammoth meringues and gigantic wheels of cheese. There are stalls selling Cumberland sausages and duck confit sandwiches. I buy a bottle of San Pellegrino from an ice cream van and drink it next to the Thames. I can see the dome of St. Paul's off in the distance. Being here is at once totally natural and slightly odd. It feels good.

Before I even realize it I'm in Clerkenwell. You really can sense the Fleet beneath your feet -- submerged, but ever-flowing. I peek in on the eponymous well, which was not rediscovered until 1924. We arrive at Dr. Johnson's house and pay our respects to Hodge, that "very fine cat indeed." I imagine him slinking around Gough Square in spectral form, twining about my ankles. I should've brought him an oyster.
We take the train to Greenwich. Yes, the pigtail grease stains on Nelson's coat are still there. I walk down to the foreshore and borrow three fine rocks from the Thames. I hope He doesn't mind.
Strolling along the embankment under a blue sky, I watch the sunlight dance on the murk of the Thames. Black-headed gulls swoop and dive at the water. I'm vaguely reminded of my own River, far away. My provenance is showing.

We stop for lunch at Covent Garden. My squash and goat cheese pie is especially tasty. I take a picture of my other trusty travelling companion, Mr. Difalot.I'm pleased that I can show him where he came from.

Now we're off to Bunhill Fields. I imagine that this is a serene, meditative place. Today I am quickly disabused of this notion.

A group of uniformed schoolchildren have colonized the main path and are running about, making up noisy games on the spot. Their matching hats adorn the nearby fence. I hope I'll get to have a quiet moment with William and at the very least be able to take a decent picture.I feel like I should be annoyed by the noisy kids, but I'm not. Suddenly, strangely, my heart fills with joy and I burst out laughing. It's a magical moment.

I try opening up to William, asking him to tell me which stone is his. I sense a vague insistence (over there, to my right, a few rows back, a few stones over...) Is it him? Is it me? The both of us? Neither? I wish I would've had the time to knit him socks; I bet his feet are cold.
On the walk to St. Paul's I just can't help it -- The Real Tuesday Weld's music and Glen Duncan's words spring to mind, unbidden. This is really not all that surprising. Both are perfect complements to the bustle and Spirit of the City they were created in; how fitting that they chose this moment to float to the surface. When one Loves one's city as much as they do, it can be quite catching.I think it's safe to say that I've contracted that condition myself. I love London; it is wonderful to be here....and I'll be coming back.