I have been trying to think of a way to end this blog but I have way too many things to say about London, none of which really go together or make much sense, and all of which sound a bit douchey, even in my head. So instead I figure I will let someone else do the talking:

"I can never understand why Londoners fail to see that they live in the most wonderful city in the world. It is, if you ask me, far more beautiful and interesting that Paris and more lively than anywhere but New York-- and even New York can't touch it in lots of important ways. It has more history, finer parks, a livlier and more varied press, better theaters, more numerous orchestras and museums, leafier squares, safer streets, and more courteous inhabitants than any other large city in the world.

And it has more congenial small things--incidental civilities, you might call them--then any other city I know: cheery red mailboxes, drivers who actually stop for you at pedestrian crossings, lovely forgotten churches with wonderful names like St. Andrew by the Wardrobe and St. Giles Cripplegate, sudden pockets of quiet like Lincoln's Inn and Red Lion Square, interesting statues of obscure victorians in togas, pubs, black cabs, double-decker buses, helpful policemen, polite notices, people who will stop to help you when you fall down or drop your shopping, benches everywhere. What other great city would take the trouble to put blue plaques on houses to let you know what famous person once lived there, or warn you to look left or right before stepping off the curb? I'll tell you. None." --Bill Bryson, from Notes From a Small Island

Cheers, London, for a good year.