Having lived in the solitary greenness of Devon my whole life, moving to London for university felt daunting to me. That’s not to say I wasn’t hell bent on doing it, I’ve wanted to live there for years but only last September had the chance. When bird song changes to siren calls and green spaces include views of sky scrapers, it’s not hard to feel daunted and small, and that’s exactly what I felt when I first moved there. I couldn’t sleep for the constant night buzz, the rush of late trains, angry drivers, heated arguments and rubbish scrounging foxes. But soon, upon returning home, the silence began to keep me up instead. The sound of the city is like a reminder that there are other things, other lives, almost a reminder of your inscrutably small place on this Earth. The silence of home is deafening, draws out the mind’s boredom. It’s hard to say you’re bored in London, I was never far from a new street I’d never ventured to, a different place to visit with friends who, due to close living quarters, you start to call family. Devon offers the same sights as I’ve always known, and I thirst for the rush of warm air on the underground as I find somewhere to my mind is uncharted.
And now I’m home for the summer and I long for Greenwich. The city is like a drug and I’m addicted. I never thought I’d be a city girl, but now when people ask where I’m from, I say London.