Building the Routine

I lived here once.

I had a job.

I had a routine.

But now a different me is back, and I’ve been tentative about building one.

That — and I don’t know where to begin.

Laundry

How do you change four beds once a week in a small apartment with nowhere to hang it all?

I found a service *Love2Laundry* inexplicably one-third the price of the others.

They come Thursday morning and drop off Friday night.

Supermarket

The European in me sneers every time an Ocado truck pulls up outside.

I prefer a weekly shop — an hour at Sainsbury’s, where I can pivot dinner ideas based on what I see.

Yes, I always forget the £1 coin for the shopping cart.

So I go to the counter and give them something in exchange for one.

Once it was an umbrella.

Last time, a notebook.

Coffee

It’s easy to get carried away here. You could spend your children’s entire school budget on flat whites and inside-out cookies from Gail’s.

So: Redemption coffee beans, ground for V60.

Two cups a day at home. Two coffees out per week.

(And when you buy a bag at Redemption, they treat you to a coffee.)

Thankfully, my errant peri waistline is reason enough to avoid the pastries and cake shops that flaunt their layered selves on every corner.

But why are there so many?

Paris seems barren in comparison.

---

I don’t have any go-to places yet.

It’s all… blank.

I found myself eating mini chocolate Weetabix for dinner a few times.

After being a self-proclaimed restaurant oracle for Barcelona, I feel stripped of my identity.

And I don’t have friends — of course, I *have* friends — but not the roster.

Not the knee-jerk: *“Sashimi at Shunka after my workout at SoHo?”* Thursdays that once made up my life.

---

They say walking is falling and catching yourself.

I feel perpetually in that moment before the foot hits the ground.

Bewildered.

But strangely, when I search for fear, I can’t find it.

It used to be such a faithful companion.

Sunday

There’s one day I’ve figured out.

Sunday I run.

I don’t have a set path yet, but I run to Primrose Hill then down to Roni’s Bagels.

I run home with the bagels clutched in my hand — a carb dumbbell of sorts.

I crack open the *FT*, skip to Janan Ganesh’s column, and idle the morning away.