Postcard to London

My dear London,

Please stop flinging your men in my face.

You’ve taken them from teenagers to gentlemen, from frail to broad shouldered, from bald to curly, from intellectual property to oil.

You’re sending them back with manners, courage, respect, chivalry, empathy and a certain gentilesse that is hard to fathom.

You’re teaching them about there and here, and distance and people, the past that was, and the present that is.

You’re making them smile more, talk less, fly more, walk less and in some cases promise more, act less. But there are always exceptions to every rule, so I’ll let that last bit pass.

Basically, to cut a long letter short, you’re pretty much turning them into smashingly charming pied pipers!

I think you’re doing a groundbreaking job, but before any more of them stab me with their charisma and send me into a tingling nostalgia, I beg you, please stop sending them my way! Or… nurture them like you nurture all your other dirty English folk, those crass, foul mouthed wrecks.

Please. This is a sincere request. I hope you can empathise.

Yours helplessly.