Force-ripe orange.

The sun really put on a fantastic show this weekend. It did well to scatter the clouds and the bleak drugery that has held London in its grip for the longest while.

It was lovely in Spitalfields this afternoon. It seemed that all the youth of the city were out and enlivened by this sudden change in weather. The sun was so blinding that I even felt compelled to wear my vinatge shades; a nod to the encroaching warmer weather.

But don't get me wrong. It was still bloody freezing! I felt happy winding through the stalls, peeking at hats and fascinators and other wierd-and-wonderful creations. Vibesing to the the dub-step, remembering walking hand-in-hand with him of last year and him of four and seven years ago.

We wondered if we'd ever meet "Mr Right."
"Far too cynical for that now, I responded."
"Maybe Mr alright," said my friend.

"What scares me about moving back home is that we'd have to make friends all over again."
"Yup."
"The thought is enticing."

Through the coffee shop window the sun was blazing. The sky was a deep blue, the same blue that I only started recognising on my holidays to Trinidad. Immediately that longing feeling crept inside me. I get it sometimes on a Sunday evening, when I start thinking about work.

I imagined Sundays spent lazing on the beach or sitting on some cool verandah, a pot bubbling somewhere.

We stepped outside and were at once lashed by the wind.

"Oh lorse," said my urban backpacking friend. We huddled close as we made our way down the street.

The sun was like a force-ripe orange in the sky.