OLD JOURNEY INTO A NEW YEAR

Coming back to a city I left for London is like returning to your childhood bedroom: everything has a memory, meaning and nostalgia, but it holds the soft, faded glow of time.

London has its glittering lights and opportunities that seem dreamlike to an outsider, but very quickly become a reality for anyone ambitious enough to take them.

Liverpool, for me, is my childhood city and through my eyes and those of many others, it has gone through many eras in my lifetime.
I too have gone through many eras, and have changed and been sculpted into a constantly evolving person, basking in the sparkle of new experiences and finding comfort in remembering old ones.

New Year’s Eve has brought my boyfriend and me up to Liverpool, and we are staying at the very top of the city in Hightown, with my dear friend Tracy.

The timelessly Victorian institution of the train links my two worlds, and we arrive at the dour, utilitarian architecture of Euston Station.

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Naughty selfie time at the dazzling Euston Pret
Coming back to a city I left for London is like returning to your childhood bedroom: everything has a memory, meaning and nostalgia, but it holds the soft, faded glow of time.

London has its glittering lights and opportunities that seem dreamlike to an outsider, but very quickly become a reality for anyone ambitious enough to take them.

Liverpool, for me, is my childhood city and through my eyes and those of many others, it has gone through many eras in my lifetime.
I too have gone through many eras, and have changed and been sculpted into a constantly evolving person, basking in the sparkle of new experiences and finding comfort in remembering old ones.

New Year’s Eve has brought my boyfriend and me up to Liverpool, and we are staying at the very top of the city in Hightown, with my dear friend Tracy.

Presentation often taking lead of organisation in my life, I forget my 16-25 railcard, the result of which costing me an extra £80 should I hop on the train without it.

I swallow my pride and leave young William with the luggage, hopping on the 253 bus to retrieve the card that was £30 worth of wise investment.

I flick open my iBooks app, reading through the beautifully written but terribly tragic comic book about Ukraine gifted to me by my new comic aficionado friend, Peter. I read tales of radiation poisoning, corruption and extreme famine.

A spot of light reading, then.

My often chaotic room is neat, orderly and Chrisian-friendly,  so finding my railcard is wonderfully pain-free, stuffing it into my pocket and leaping back onto the 253, before the bus driver can hum and erm is foot on the accelerator, leaving behind a flustered Gavino.

  
An accomplished me arrives, and we discuss the cultural phenomenon of utilitarian everything in mid-century Britain.

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