the shiny bauble city

on gold things that cannot stay

I am writing from a small cafe at the end of Marylebone High Street. Buttery sunshine flows through the window and across my notebook page, syrupy as the spoonfuls of Lyles that I drizzled across my boys’ porridge before I left for the London train.

Ginkgo trees line the street, their impossibly bright leaves scattering the road like confetti, pressed in…