From London with love.: "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."

I'm still getting used to this blogger malachy, I'm miserable because I deleted all my literature vomit I wrote in relation to this post and I've been mega lazy to rewrite it ever since but here I am now, tattering away at my filthy macbook keypad, its so revolting that I long for it to be sterile and smell of that freshly bought, brand spanking shiny veneer that you get when you witness the birth of a new gift. But moving swiftly on...

Last Saturday my mum, my sister and I decided to pay a visit to Holland Park and Kensington Gardens, all the surrounding nooks and crannies of former childhood crusades. We doused in the sun's premature swelter and sensed all those too familiar fumes; the roses' glory, no longer was I looking through those worldly infant eyes but instead for me their existence had shrunk down to purely entertaining mothers pushing prams and kids' clammy, dirt ridden hands as they lie doomed in their perfectly squared out coffin dimensions. What I didn't recognise was the unsettling stench of weed that masked the timeless aura of my old paths but I made an appropriate remark to my sister and laughed, thinking to myself how I'm no longer a transparent four year old with stumps for limbs.