We climbed a hill yesterday. It was dark, and we did not have a flash light. I did not have the right shoes, so my socks and feet got drenched. I did not wear the right clothes, so I felt the moisture creep from the ground in my body as I sat down on the grass. I was tipsy from the cheap wine, and full from the nice food. I was drenched and cold and tipsy and full and most of all I was content.
It was a friend’s birthday, so we met her near Primrose Hill, went in a gastropub, drank and ate, talked and laughed, analysed Flat Land and Fifty Shades of Grey, and had these moments where everything slows down and you realise how lucky you are to be walking on this earth at this point in time with these people. This moment where you feel grateful for everything you have and for everything you don’t, fuel for striving to get it, reminder of where you are in your life’s timeline.
We sang Happy Birthday of the top of our lungs, she made a wish and blew the candles, and divided the individual desert in bite sized pieces and it was the best desert I had all week.
When we walked towards the hill the streets were quiet; we were not. I was looking at my shoes, how I made them move, how they made me move. I looked up and saw that we arrived at the hill. Now up we go.
On the top, the breeze passed through us, and we sat down with our plastic cups half full of Pims and lemonade. The London skyline was so breathtaking, that I had to adjust my eyes, to adjust my mood, to open up and take it all in. The buildings lit the sky, the London eye was spinning, the Shard was solemn and the BT Tower watched us as we tried to decide which one was our favourite.
I lied down, placed my head on the knees of my friend, and allowed my body to fully relax, my muscles to surrender, my eyes closing with the weight of the day and the security of good company; and just like that, I fell asleep, on the top of a hill in a corner of a town that does not sleep.