Monday, 15 June, 2026
On the subject of 20-20, I looked back at my first post of that year. I remember typing it. Lockdown hadn’t been announced yet, but there were quiet rumours of an epidemic that could become a pandemic. That didn’t sound possible at the time. Nevertheless, I had high hopes for the year. It was 20-20, perfect vision, after all. What could go wrong?
The concept of ‘home’ came to me again today. I am following a couple on social media. They are from the USA and left to find a different life last year – they’ve been in Mexico some years back, and recently the UK, Spain, Crete, and Holland. They want to live in the UK, but that’s not easy. They do have a three-year digital nomad visa to live in Spain so, after some stays in these other countries, they are in Valencia for their three years, still hoping for an entry way to the UK. Inevitably, they get a lot of comments – some hateful – from mostly US and UK followers asking what they can possibly see in the UK, how they are traitors who will regret their decision, and so on. People don’t get it. Somehow they think they should. Oh, I’ve been there. I am there.
So let’s talk about me. Because I’m trying. Really. What makes us love a place? Honestly, who knows? We can trot out all the reasons we love a place, or a person, but there will always be things we don’t love about them. After living in London, Toronto, Southern California (LA area), and San Francisco, and travelling a bit in Europe, I can say that there are things I love and don’t love about everywhere I’ve been. However, there are constants, the things that a place must have for me to love – or like – them at all. In my introspective way, I follow a handful of people from Canada and the US who have relocated to London, and an equal number of people who have moved from the UK to Toronto. Fascinating. The North Americans in London interest me with their mixed reports of falling in love versus pure confusion-frustration over the UK way of doing things. They report missing things from home, often junk food items that make me go ewww. But I get it. Now, the Brits living in Toronto are another breed. They’re starstruck. The skyscrapers, the summer (and winter) sunshine, the ‘nice factor.’ They love their sparkling condos, their mod cons. They’re young and stride around the city- they’re used to walking places – checking out all the boogie coffee shops and eateries. Toronto is next-level luxury to them. What I came to appreciate was that the things that impressed them were not the things I wanted. I get it. But it’s fun to watch them brim with joy in a Dollarama, gape at the produce in Farm Boy (and yes at the prices too). I keep hoping their enthusiasm will rub off, and try to see this place through (their) new eyes. I have a cousin whose middle name is Bitter. Yes, that one. She smirks at me and then gathers her bitterness, telling me that I wouldn’t love East London if I’d lived there as long as she had, if I’d endured the hard life she had no choice to live. Once when I was staying in Liverpool, my dad visited on business. He screwed up his nose and asked me how I could love being there when it was so poor, so dirty. I told him, honestly, that the things he saw as ugly were the things I loved. I couldn’t help it.
Am I wearing rose-coloured glasses? Am I romanticising? Does it matter? Is my cousin right? Honestly, I understand her history is longer, but no matter how you paint it, I honestly did and still love my childhood home even as I know I had my eyes open about how ‘poor’ it was. (We were never truly poor, but you may know what I mean.) Is the grass greener? There’s that, but it’s also different, and different can be a lot of fun.
Since I last wrote anything, there’s been a gap because last Tuesday I had my first cataract surgery and, since it makes some people squeamish but I want to document it, it follows on the next page.
Meanwhile, some photos to document what else I’ve been filling my time with.
Friday photo:
