Eyjafjallajökull

I am fucking pissed.

It's a cool thing, actually. This volcano. The pictures are fucking terrifying and astounding and gorgeous. It's one of those rare things that happens only every once in a while, and I should be like, "Oooh... big scary volcano exploding. Awesome."

But it messed with London.

You don't fucking mess with London.

You don't get it. London is my home town. More than the town I was born. More than the place I grew up. More than any city I've been to on this planet (and I've visited a fair share). This city, this place, is the one place on God's green earth where I feel like a fucking person with a fucking PURPOSE, and I don't get to go there very often. This was a small thing. Three days. A concert. A chance to soak in a bit of the place I've been missing for so long. Just enough to stop the melancholy that I get when I'm away too long, just to stop it for a short while.

And stupid fucking Eyjafjallajökull had to come along and fuck everything up.

Go to hell, Eyjafjallajökull.

Clouds of ash spreading through the atmosphere. And of course the T-shaped blob would have to settle right over London. The one place I've been looking forward to so very much.

I hate you Eyjafjallajökull. And your mother too.

London.

Tea and biscuits. The parks. The bustle. The Underground! Watching Doctor Who live on the BBC. Strongbow. Pubs. Bloody good Yorkshire pudding. Hamley's toy shop. Harrod's. The Evelyn Evelyn show. Jaffa cakes. Top Shop. Pixie Lott and Take That. The National Gallery. Jazz in the Crypt at St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Big Ben. The Globe. Walking along the river. Clifton Gardens. Little Venice. Time Out. Oyster cards. Burrough market. Camden. Notting Hill. The British Museum. A bus ride to Oxford. The train stations. The theatre district. Covent Garden. St. Paul's. The Tate.

The way people speak. The hum of the city. The way there are always people, always at least one person. You're never really alone in a city. The lights, especially the way they shine at night. The pavements. There's an aura to the city. You know without really knowing that you're someplace important, someplace where something is always going on. The stupid signs in the Underground advertising the latest crazy thing (moon cups?). The tabloids. Tesco's and Sainsbury's and Boots.

The way the light falls on the city in early morning. The feeling of layers of thousands of years of history beneath your feet.

I love that city with a love I can't properly describe.

The violent imagery of lightning, ash, and fire colliding above the surface of the volcano is the perfect metaphor for the anger and hatred and frustration spewing out of me and hovering above me even now as we speak.