Tuesday, February 09, 2016
Anything For Love
My house guest, who is 18 and English and adorable, and with whom I celebrated, quite enthusiastically, national pizza day, asked me tonight why anyone would ever live anywhere other than LA. "Why on earth would you even consider moving to England," he asked. And I recited the litany of reasons that I loved LA: no weather issues, no need to carry a coat, an umbrella, gumboots, access to the ocean, mountains, trees, a world full of possibility, a vibrant art scene, sunshine, did I mention sunshine? You know, just to support it, because it is a city I love. LA IS my lady, and all that. And what a wonderful place it is. But then I realized, in the immortal words of Meatloaf, that you'd do anything for love. I'd live on a mattress in a one room shack in communist Russia if it meant I could be with the man I love. It's funny that, isn't it? And by the way, England has beech trees, ancient oaks, Sunday lunch, Dr Who, Liberty, chalk and clay, flints, burial grounds, beacons, owls, bracken, plum trees, many kinds of apple, walled gardens, marks & spencer white cotton knickers in three packs, proper butchers, ghosts, colefax & fowler, farrow & ball, lots of old churches, graveyards filled with flowers, my father's bones, my mamma, sloes, damsons, redcurrants, blackcurrants, raspberry canes to thin, the best brother in the world, roast pork and treacle tart in Therfield, bridle paths, meadows filled with grass and buttercups, and the man I love.