Terrorists attacked London again. Luckily, it was (mostly) failed but it's so tiring that this is till happening.
Because London is such a large city and mostly exists in my mind as various isolated "areas" connected only though underground tubes, it's easy to believe this bombing thing did not happen in my city. It was, you know, in that other London. At least 4 stops away on the Picadilly line. Miles away.
That I grew up as a sheltered American in an even more sheltered state of paradise contributes no small part to my naivety. People don't really put bombs on your city do they? What's up with that?
Friday continued as usual. Met DM at the pub for some Frulis. The sun made an appearance.

DM's apartment is outrageously posh. Like, step-out-of-the-elevator-and-you're-in-the-apartment posh. Wood and marble everywhere. A bidet. We drunk dialed Johnny. The poor sucker was still at work back in San Francisco.
"Hey. How's it going?"
"Johnny!" I screamed. "D's place is so nice! It has its own elevator!"
"How about I move to London and get a place like that? Would you live in there with me?" My heart leapt, just for a second.
"Johnny, you can barely afford your $900 apartment. This place is like, four thousand dollars."
"Six thousand" interjected DM. :-O
Apparently, as an ex-pat, DM's company gives him a £2500 rent stipend. He pays whatever is left which is, if you can imagine the salary he gets from a company like this, peanuts.
Why can't the cute earthy ones be financial powerhouses too? Sigh.