This morning I want to read the New York Times; I don’t want the Guardian, with its politicians I don’t recognise, with its local news that is still not local to me; I don’t want the newly shrunken Observer; I want the New York Times in its unwieldy, large paper format and its big Sunday magazine, I want to toss out the Automobiles section, I want the Sunday Styles and whatever idiot story they have up front.

It seems like ages since I returned to London, when the truth is, if, like Tom England, I take a step back, I realise it hasn’t even been five days.

The Tom England story is this:

Yesterday, coming back from the gym,

(and, oh, yes, everything hurts, it hurts when I walk, it hurts when I climb the stairs, it hurts when I laugh—and these are things I have been doing, in vast quantities, every day),

Yesterday, coming back from the gym, I beeped in the door code and a man—dark hair; dark eyes; scruffy, but—this is the West End after all—thoughtfully so—came up from behind me on the street and entered my building with me. “This is it,” I thought, “the one day I don’t look around first to make sure I’m not being followed, this is the day I will be attacked in the hallway.” I stepped aside to let him go ahead, hedging my bets, working on a delay. His hand came out of his pocket, jangling keys, and he directed himself to one of the ground-floor apartments. Hooray for scruffy chic neighbours! “Hello,” I said, “I’m Stellou, in Flat S upstairs,” and I stuck out my hand to shake his. “Hello,” he said, “I’m—” and here he took a step back, and I don’t remember if his right arm swept the space between us in a regal arc, but at this moment of writing, it certainly seems, in my mind’s eye, that he must have,

“Hello,” he said, “I’m Tom England.” And it seemed completely natural that he’d retreated: if I had a name like Tom England, I’d give it space too.

“Oh,” I said, because I am charm and grace, “England like England.”

But, so.

England like England, and I’m still not entirely sure what I’m doing here. The nights out with Henny and John are very nice—last night, after a classic fish-and-chip dinner down the street, it was just the three of us closing down the joint at Canela, with mint teas and a slice of passionfruit cheesecake—and earlier this week Hens and I warmed the low seats at the Souk Medina; it was deep and cosy in there, with thick carpets on the floors, on the walls, and sweet hookah smell in everything; and the waitress kept bringing plates of treasures: aubergines, hummus, tabouleh, lamb, stewed carrots, on and on and on, and then a circle of baklava, I mean, we were there for hours—

the nights out are nice and all—and today there is a brunch date, which is exciting because there will be at least one of the following: (a) Nai and (b) waffles; and then tonight, unexpectedly, a pancake dinner—

so it’s not a bad life, I know, and I’m not complaining, really, but still: I wonder if it means anything, the days, the nights, all of this, I just wonder.