As I cross London’s Tower Bridge on a crisp, Autumn English morning, the sun belts it’s rays through the pretty bridge turrets and they appear adorned by jewels. It strikes down shards of brilliance through the bars and ropes hanging onto the banner below carrying cars, two-storey red busses, and more like me, wandering. Then it splinters life-giving glory onto the gluttonous, murky Thames.
Sometimes pacing, sometimes ambling through East London on my way to work, the icy edge on a brilliant blue sky beckons a northern hemisphere winter to come and enfold us. My breath in feels clean. The cold sun gives luminescence to this city’s heavy, gruesome history; to the grime laid down in gutters in the 1600’s; to the modern-day evil present in a city too rammed.
My day begins clear.
Summer sun here, though, is my nemesis.
It slams me with homesickness. Sitting by that Thames sludge on a suffocating day where the temperature has only reached 25 degrees but the blanket of sweat over the city is dense; is useless. That water gives off no relief. It is nothing like being cleansed by the fresh sting of salt and waves in my home place, my Warriewood beach. Still, sleepless nights drive the yearning to be home, deeper. How I miss sitting on my back patio, with my mum, white wine and a salad dinner. How I miss my friends, laughing lazily as our bones are warmed. How I miss the cool breeze straight from the Pacific Ocean, as I am stifled here in this cranky, crowded, over-heated place, which slows to a swampy, thick pace without a smile.
How opposite the sun.
This was an excercise my writers group did: to describe why you love the sun, and then why you hate the sun.
Why do you love, and hate, the sun?