At A Moment's Notice

A few months ago,
given an excuse: say, my goldfish had died
I would have given London the royal one finger salute and in precisely an hour, depending on delays on the Picadilly line,
I would at Heathrow airport and after two more hours of customs,
I most definitely would have been on the next plane home.

That finger would have been for you, millions of anonymous unsmiling faces,
for you, endless rolling grey skies
for every piece of litter on the street because there are no bins because of the bombs
for every suicide announced in cold voices on the underground.

I wouldn't have missed the homeless sitting in alcoves with heads bowed and paper cups,
the drunks and their scary not-quite-with-it faces and their loud angry voices
or the news headlines announcing the latest stabbings.

But
there was no excuse.
Nobody called up, needed me in Australia at an hour's notice depending on delays on the Picadilly line.

And now, given an excuse: say my goldfish had died
well actually I'd be very sad but
what about
our very nice flatmates
and
well
where would I get my baklava from, it couldn't possibly be the same as that little shop just down the road where the lady knows who I am now and she smiles at me and asks if I like pistachios (of course I do, lady! What's not to love!)
I can't LEAVE, who would pay the rent
and I couldn't let anybody else live in MY HOUSE and watch the leaves turn red and fall off the vines on the back fence.

I haven't...
I'm not quite...
WHAT ABOUT MY WHITE CHRISTMAS!

I can't possibly go home yet.