Church Bells

Yesterday whilst we were on Hampstead Heath I could hear a church bell from Highgate Hill, you can even see the spire from the toddlers' park we go to. That city village feeling of narrow streets that are centuries old, of terraced houses that have slanted slowly over decades.

That's what always inevitably reminds me of small Seville streets on warm afternoons. I'm recently getting those odd cravings again, where I need my annual fix of a walk through old desserted Arabian cobbled streets, the only sign of life sparked off by a shout of some mother calling in her kids. What confuses me is that I wouldn't want to live there, I've already done that. There's no work there anyway. But I've been going there nearly every year since I was zero. I shouldn't forget to mention sitting at my aunty's living room table with my legs tucked underneath next to the electric heater, talking about everything and nothing.

Wierd to think I'm a father of two with a house, a career, and an overdraft.