January is always an odd month in London. Usually people have gone nutso in the lead-up to Christmas, partying and eating at a frenetic pace (December is the month of vomit - it lines the pavements and fills the doorways of this fair city as wanker banker, desk monkey and the masses overindulge at the countless office Christmas parties taking place throughout the capital) and then they're all worn out and overspent by 2 January when detoxes are declared, the hatches are battened and gym memberships are dusted off.
But this January has had the whiff of change about it in my small circle of friends.
Babies have been born, flats have been bought, promises have been made, lines have been crossed and everything is indeed changing. I blame us. Perhaps I blame our whole generation. Or maybe I should blame our parents. We all spent our twenties ignoring the future and partying our little arses off, and then suddenly, a few years past 30, all at once everyone realised that time was running out. Suddenly those things we'd been putting off bore down upon us with palpable gravity and now we have surrendered under a hail of babies, engagement rings, careers, home-ownership and declarations of lifelong commitment.
In January we welcomed my cute-as-a-button niece into the world, helped a friend move into his new home, waved goodbye to a friend as he set sail for NYC...and moved back into our old flat in London.
45e Westbourne Gardens is a legend. It was the second flat we had in London, after the summer of sifting near Kensington Gardens, and it has been in the circle ever since. We moved out in 2004, but our favourite Swindian had been here ever since. Until he bought a flat and moved out a few weeks ago, providing a welcome anchorage for us until we leave at the beginning of April. NYC kindly pointed out that while everyone else is moving forward, Matt & I are regressing.
It is a bit spooky being back at 45e. So many people have passed through this flat - all my friends have either stayed here or partied here at one time or another. We spent our first Christmas in London here. We used to hold a Carnival party here each year. My best friend's mother stayed here with us. My best friend stayed here as she exited, homeward bound, as did countless other friends, as the stack of mail we still receive for them can testify. My brother stayed here with me when he moved here from New Zealand. Feasts, parties, wine and cigarettes into the wee hours, watching the sun come up from the kitchen table, talking, singing and dancing. It has been like part of the family, like Grandma's house, our one constant in our otherwise transient existences, a home away from home.
But it is in the last death throes, our friend has left, we are only here temporarily, and the flat is to be sold.
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