More of the same sadnesses

I stayed in London last night, because I couldn't get to work on time from 'domicile-ville' this morning - the first of the infamous 'rail replacement bus services' would've made me almost half an hour late - and the cheapest place I could find within commutable distance was out near Heathrow. As is my wont, I checked out where the nearest Wetherspoons was, and it proved to be one I hadn't patronised before. I settled into a quietish corner - the pub was fairly busy for a late afternoon/early evening - and perused the menu for evening meal options. But then he arrived. Perfection. 11/12, fair-haired, all boy. And spent the best part of two hours sitting ten bloody feet away, with, as I soon worked out from conversation, his grandfather. I was in love within minutes, but, of course, those ten feet might as well have been the width of the Pacific, because, given that I'm nothing if not a realist, I knew that was as close as I'd ever get to him. And then his mother turned up to collect him, and he was gone. My heart ached, almost literally. But that wasn't even the first knife twisted in my psyche of yesterday. As I was leaving 'worktown' at lunchtime, I glimpsed a little boy, maybe 4, who looked very much like DBJ, or, at least, how I would've imagined him looking at that age. It wasn't the 'little pretty' that was the problem, it was my memories of the boy, the be-all and end-all. Not, as I've said, even a boy anymore, in reality, but seared into my mind forever. I wouldn't be at all surprised if his face is in my consciousness as I take my dying breath.
Then, much more prosaically, as I walked from the hotel to the bus stop to head for work, it occurred to me that today was the first day since March 1 2014 that I didn't have a valid TfL bus pass - my last Travelcard expired at 0430 this morning, and I was back on good old 'pay as you go'. Trivial in itself, but another reminder that I don't live in London anymore. Life, all of it, dragging me down.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B