It smells of smoke in the air all the way down to us. The air is misty. Oliver tells me that the park up by the studio was filled with ash and debris and he can see the still burning building from the window.
The stories from the burning house close to where I live hits me like so many other things this year. Life in London is filled with tragedy at the moment. The thought that someone throws a baby out the burning window to save it makes me hide in the bathroom.
This is London. In flames. Over and over again this spring.
So I hug the people close to me. Curled up against George chest with Woolly on the other side of me this morning while I told him what had happened while we slept.
I go out and enjoy the sunshine. Try to read books and think about happier things. The city and it’s people, that me, needs to continue. So that is what I do.
Letters to my family 