I love this place. I must say it out loud as he looks down at me and replies "I can tell."
Dim, rainy sunshine dripping onto the latticed roof. We walk halfway around the Reading Room, heading for the Parthenon galleries. Centaurs, ephebes, an explanation of why a small penis means you are a good Greek boy. The Rosetta stone, a favourite Exekias pot, the early Christian paintings I spent three months studying. The crowds are thinning as we leave to eat Thai. I get too drunk and rant about socialism all the way home.
The next day, cold cold wind on the Thames, hats and gloves and a pretend German Christmas market, wooden sheds and The Pogues on a loudspeaker. Coffee and cake by the steps of St Pauls. Sometimes, he says, I love London.
Sometimes, I do, too.