London of old friends, new characters, falling in lust with fashion, London of growing older AND growing up. London of frowning at tourists (read: anyone who walks too slowly or stops in the sweeping tide of movement on the Underground), of racist guest lists at fancy clubs, of studying in parks at the first sighting of the sun, of secret sales and strange night outs, London of Banghra Crush and stalking library crushes, of running for the last bus to Golders Green in the midst of a cackle of giggling girls, long brown legs eating the side walk in a run for the last Number 13.

London.

Touch down at Heathrow feels like bolting through a time machine, hoisting me back to university days, to feeling young and reckless and like the entire world was waiting for us, was created for our pleasure with all of London ours to discover. I remember many mornings, running helter-skelter past suited workers strutting to work on the Strand, only to burst in late to my law lecture at the LSE’s Old Theatre…all because I was distracted by a (really great!) sale in Covent Garden. In those days we longed to get rid of this education weight. The working world winked at student life from a distance with its allure of a coursework-free existence, “Oh we thought, the opportunities such a life must hold!” Listen my friend, don’t grow up I tell you it’s a trap! The only reason we do it is because we are terrified of the alternative, death.

London always takes me back, makes me feel young and childish and bold. There’s a pride that comes with attending a good school. That feeling of hotblooded ambition, the assurance that impossible is nothing as you stare around at the motley crew of some of the world’s brightest (or just most hard working and determined) young people. At uni, life is easy. No one tells you that when you grow older the world doesn’t hand out its rewards fairly, that merit, determination and hard work are only potential components of success. The curriculum somehow forgot the lesson to teach us that life isn’t really based on grades or extracurricular credit or mere participation…but on a wild, unpredictable concoction sometimes consisting of networks, blind luck and being in the right place at the right time. They didn’t grade us on a class that teaches what to do when you lose someone you love or when relationships fail…or when the carpet of life is dragged from underneath your feet, causing your earth to tilt irredeemably. No one told us there would be a crippling daily fight for our minds with the silent visitor Cynicism and its uncanny ability to erase the world of colour and paint everything a hazy monochrome. They gave us a Contract law elective where a diplomacy and fortitude course might have been more effective. I got Torts for every time I should have had a lesson on building up after a breaking down.

Perhaps if they had told us it was a dog eat horse world out there waiting for us, we may not have so readily pulled those all nighters on the library’s fourth floor and earned the Grave Yard shift title.

Or we might have. Because we are curious and bold…and would have always believed we were wolves in a world of dogs.