We had a bridge we called ours back then, when I briefly went out with Mareike the German while living in Amsterdam for a year. It was one of those bridges that collapses fifty times a day to allow canal boats through.
Last night we walked to a Sam Smith's pub an American friend Sebastian knew and I didn't. I've got a lot to learn about the city of my birth. Sebastian led me and Mareike and a stranger wolf-whistled. Her hair is dyed bright blond, shorn on one side and chin length on the other and I guess she's always attracted attention. She bumped into people and we three talked as we drank bad beer Sebastian had swiped from work - a posh bar-restaurant by St. Paul's. Later Mareike said she's sleeping with an Irishman or a Frenchman. Nothing seems to have changed.
I'm ploughing back through a past I thought I'd left a distance behind. One friend once said he returned to England from Japan and the most overwhelming feeling he had was relief. But sometimes I find myself wanting to tug at my hair and scream out in frustration at having landed right back where I worked hard to move on from.
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