|sent from: London, UK. destination: Wellington, New Zealand|
I was cycling through London, on my way home at the end of another long week. I imagined years ago that I would work less as my career progressed ~ no such luck yet. I was exploring some of the back streets in Belgravia and Chelsea, trying to find the streets and squares I used to know. At some point, I realised I was never going to make it all the [way] home, so I cut through Battersea to catch the train at Clapham Junction. I missed my train by a couple of minutes. I caught the next one that took me nearby enough so I could cycle home. Maria was already home, I assumed, so why wasn’t she responding to my messages? It was strange. Maybe she was distracted. I called. Where are you? she asked. At Surbiton, I replied. She went quiet. Did I do something wrong? The guard blew his whistle, and I heard it through the phone. I’m at Surbiton too, she said. We had made it onto the same train, one carriage apart. Where we got off the train we had a lovely dinner together. Best Friday surprise ever.