002 "Little Things"

I’ll take my shot, I ain’t gonna miss

-Inhaler, “Little Things” (2025)

Dear Reader,

October has now come and gone here in London. And as it is (time got away from me), November’s end is following closely behind.

I had intended to come up with wrap-ups for each month individually, but alas, I forgot. I started the draft for October at the start of November, and then it quickly got pushed to the wayside as other writings got out of hand. Hence, October and November’s wrap-ups are now combined because I lack the patience to separate them.

We’ll start with October…

I’ve watched the leaves begin their aging process and fall, coating the cobbled and paved streets and parks in a blanket of tangerine and gold. I already miss October, and it feels like it’s only just left. In short, it was a month of finding routine and reconnecting.

At the top of the month, I shared a hearty bowl of ramen in Battersea with an old friend from Alabama. By strange happenstance, we’re here in London at the same time to complete our master’s degrees, and bless us for actually taking the idea of meeting up out of the chat and putting it into action. Reunions are rarely easy tasks, but I think we managed fairly well and left room for a friendship to continue to grow— and if we can ever get ourselves out of our respective hermit holes of creativity again, another dinner is soon to be put in the diary.

Continuing, I greeted crows and cats and watched many a sunset in Regent’s Park and drank loads of oat cappuccinos on the run.

We’re keeping strange company, every one of us. This isn’t the only world we live in, the one that’s around us, the one we see. We’re characters in hundreds of different worlds. All of us.

-Jonathan Buckley, Tell

I set myself on a personal mission to drink in as much of the sun’s rays as I could, which, admittedly, not to spoil November’s tale, I didn’t see much of.

Mid-October was spent at the Colombia Road Flower Market, which I will have to return to with the eyes of a florist come spring, my favorite matcha shop in Hackney Wick, and many evenings at the coffee shop at the corner near my house— the people who run it have begun to recognize me, and I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time until they consider me a regular. I also spent quite a bit of time at the Senate House Library, a nerdy perk of being a student means I have access to it and its wealth of long tables, power outlets, and yes, books. So it’s become a habit of mine to camp out there for as long as I can stand.

The highlight of this month, and perhaps my life, was that on Halloween I saw my favorite band play at the Royal Albert Hall. It’s cliché to say, but it was, in fact, a dream come true. Dressed as some creatively crafted (from things I already own and miraculously thought to pack— who thinks to bring a silver skirt for a year-long stay in London? Only yours truly) version of David Bowie’s Jareth from one of the greatest films ever made, Labyrinth, I went to the show on my own. I had bought the ticket a little impulsively, a month before, because upon discovering there were still a few tickets available (with one reasonably priced and alarmingly close to the stage), there was no way I was going to miss out on the opportunity. They were incredible, as they always are. By the way, the band is Inhaler, if you don’t already know me well enough to assume that. And as it was Inhalerween, they were dressed in theme with Phantom of the Opera, which I did call the moment I walked into the theatre and saw the stage covered in rose petals and candles and dramatically draped white sheets. Call it basic and pick-me to say, “I guessed it,” whatever. I did. I walked in there with the mere expectations of a night in my own personal heaven. Picture a beautiful theatre and me bouncing to the beats of my favorite music, screaming with weak knees, bathed in neon lights— nothing is better than that. I just wanted another phenomenal show by the boys, something fun to be able to write home about, if you will. And apparently, the third time really is the charm. I walked out of that exact scene having interacted with 3/4 members of the band and with a drumstick handed directly to me by Ryan (the drummer). And before you say, “Oh, she’s being dramatic,” there are videos of the moment online. Look it up. Anyway, I could yammer on and on about how incredible that night was, but I’ll save your poor eyes from turning green in jealousy by making you read any more about that.

With that, October said goodbye, and November rushed in.

November was particularly memorable because my mom visited me!

Hi, Mom *waves frantically*

She stayed for about two weeks. The first was spent in London, where we giggled at the strangely painted babies in the National Gallery and marvelled at Lee Miller’s masterpieces in the Tate Britain, among other works like Ophelia and pieces by the likes of Turner, Cezanne, etc. We also saw, can you guess? *drumroll* Phantom of the Opera at His Majesty’s Theater— Happy Birthday, Mom! And made the trip over to the V&A East Storehouse in Hackney to peruse the David Bowie Collection (again), where we also stopped at my favorite place to get a matcha. What else? We made our rounds at all the typical tourist sites and took photos with Ben, Parliament, the Eye, and the Palace, and then off we went for a day trip to Oxford. Oxford, of course, is a place I’m quite fond of. This trip, we managed to do a tour of the Rad Cam and the city, stopping into Scriptum, Blackwell’s, Turf Tavern. Per usual, it was gorgeous and insanely inspirational, or perhaps aspirational is a better term… seeing as I unfortunately fell even more in love with the gargoyles, cobbled streets, and ghosts of writers passed. Upon our return to my small corner of London, we shared cherry pie and custard at a place called Sam’s, crashed, and then visited a small village north of me to go to a different cafe we had seen online.

We spent the second half of her visit in Bristol, thanks, Dad, for the extra time with Mom! Here, we explored with no plan or direction, and I think we both fell a little bit in love with the city. The colorful houses on the hillside, the harbourside fishermen, rowers, bounty of dogs, and works by local boy Banksy proved to be charming beyond our expectations. We consumed divine bowls of pasta while making up tales in the restaurant. I wrote a poem for an old angler and gave it to him. We watched a man fall off a ladder 100 times, and met a Gorilla named Alfred. We stumbled into the Bristol Cathedral to discover that a band would be putting on a Pink Floyd experience the next day. We booked tickets on the spot, went to it, loved it, and laughed at our luck. We went to Spike Island to look at more art, and I wrote another poem. We made faces at our reflection and indulged in steak and ale pies and a sticky toffee pudding.

And then back in London we were, where we once again shared Sam’s cherry pie and crock of custard. The next morning, we said goodbye.

November is now saying it’s farewell, too.

In the void left in the wake of the lack of my mother’s company, I spent most of the tail of the month wandering. Literally, just walk around. Making circles, backtracking, and figuring out where to go. A metaphor for what writing has been like? Perhaps it is. A particular highlight was that I got a whole loaf of sourdough from the pedlar on the corner for the price of a half loaf. I interviewed an artist (article coming soon). I visited the V&A and marvelled at the jewels and statues, said hello to Harry Styles’s cardigan and PJ Harvey’s lyrics dress, ate a small cake, and got inspired. I went to Theater Picasso at the Tate Modern, and spent part of the day considering his work as one of my own muses. The other part of that day, I meandered around the rest of the gallery, feeling the weight of Rothko’s presence and standing entranced by Degas’s dancer.

Another cherry pie was consumed, whoops.

It got colder, rainier, and grayer out. Sleep failed to come. The “demons” got to me, as my flatmate likes to call them, and I wrote and wrote many a night and day away.

And then it was Thanksgiving. No turkey or dressing or casseroles. No family in attendance. One of the stranger ways I’ve ever spent the holiday, for sure. Not bad, just different. Part of the penalty of getting older and moving across an entire ocean to a different country, I guess, is that when the rest of your family gets together, you’re only there in spirit. Not that we didn’t video chat, we did, but it’s just different. Instead, I spent Thanksgiving this year in my small kitchen in the company of some friends, French onion pasta, ham and gouda toasties, and a few bottles of wine.

And with that, December is set to begin shortly, and I’ll talk to you again at its end… or in January… no promises as to when. I’m quite forgetful and swamped in words.

Some Recent Reads:

Tell by Jonathan Buckley

Stoner by John Williams

The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides

Bitter Water Opera by Nicolette Polek

“Howl” Fifty Years Later Edited by Jason Shinder

Book of Longing by Leonard Cohen

Until next time, take care.