My mum was here for the weekend. She left early on the Sunday, and I sat on my bed, surrounded by the pictures, trinkets, and furniture that she had brought over, idly wondering what to do with the day, trying not to feel glum. They were showing a double bill of After Sebald and Museum Hours in Dalston, and that seemed just right. I cycled to the station, got on the train, carried my bike down the stairs, cycled to the cinema, and took my seat amongst elderly couples. Mozart's clarinet concerto was playing over the speakers.
After Sebald is a wonderful film; Museum Hours was faintly disappointing. It was strange to see Vienna in its gloomy, miserable winter glory; strange to realise that I know every corner in Vienna so well, and that I will never know London as well as that.
What I liked best about the last few weeks: listening to the new Arcade Fire album, thus drowning out the sound of the train rattling through endless tunnels; discovering a new-to-me author; watching superhero films with my flatmate; that time my train back to London got cancelled because of a storm (an extra night in Durham, a few more hours holding hands); spending an entire morning in a café, eating toast and reading. And every moment that I spent on my bike.