After a reasonably cool summer the weather suddenly became stifling hot, the kind where the streets smelled like tar and dusk didn't settle until well after 9pm. As a result, West Hampstead residents dined later and later, meaning longer nights for shift workers and even later after-work-drinks with Jim, Moet and the sunrise.
Amy Winehouse died in a home a 10 minute cycle away, imposing an eerie kind of atmosphere where historians would remember Back to Black could be heard streets over and the normally edgy, slightly rough Camden town enjoyed a robust smattering of preppys and tourists hoping to see a ghost.
London continued to be a revolving door of old faces and new tricks, wistful goodbyes to old friends and hellos to ones dearly missed.
I enjoyed a brief period of waking up at sunrise and going out and enjoying London before the tourists and the traffic do. Predictably this didn't last long.
A one year anniversary came and went and everything was still the same, plans just grander.
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