Slice of SohoFriday, December 11 2015
6am, JFK. Morning truths.
Not so much running to my gate, as vaguely sleepwalking in the right direction. Here’s to hoping the vessel I end up on takes me somewhere more exotic than London. Must I really go already?
Having seventy-two hours only (half of which were tragically spent under the duvet) to enjoy the City-That-Never-Sleeps really got me thinking about the place I call home. Why does it have to be so bloody grey? Standing on the rooftop at 101 Park Avenue, gazing down at the explosion of colour reflected off every skyscraper on the grid below, I suddenly realised that my loyalty to the land of Burberry, baked beans, and great British banter was in danger.
Earlier that afternoon, as I strolled around Soho in my New Age blue threads, wide awake and desperate for more time to explore, it had hit me. A slice here and there simply won’t do. Just like you could never expect me to leave half a pizza to go cold on the plate. I’m an all or nothing kinda girl. Certainly with carbs. Especially with anything to do with this city.
I’ll be needing the rest of that slice, then.
I’ve said it before, but may as well make it official: I hereby declare the VISA investigations open.
All I want for Christmas, New York, is you!