New York. Oh New York. Being here so often still doesn't feel real. Like at any moment I might wake up and, having left Neverland behind, be back in the real world of London fog and mild summers. But the dream lives on.

What makes a perfect night in New York?

Who even knows if such a thing even exists. The perfect night, after all, is simply a lucky combination of both objective and subjective factors.

But certainly in my short time here I've had a few good ones. Just last night I was walking from my West Village home on a warm early summer evening, to meet a friend in the Lower East side to attend a poetry reading (My first ever. How cultured am

?) and as I wandered down through the streets a busker could be heard playing his saxophone in one of the many concrete parks,while teenage boys played basketball in the caged courts behind him along Houston. And for whatever reason, at that moment, I couldn't help but smile at the beauty of the place and time. I felt a joy for the city and its streets that so filled my chest it was spilling out of me like a school girl after her first kiss or someone newly in love. ( I imagine passersby were likely to be equal-parts curious and concerned with my crazy smiley behavior. But oh well. Everyone in New York has a little bit of crazy in them)

But, could the perfect New York night actually be a night in? One, for example, spent listening to Ella Fitzgerald on the record player while reading a book, having fro-yo for dinner and enjoying a glass of Malbec from the bottle you bought at the tiny neighborhood wine shop. - This, my friends, is the recipe for how I've learned to love living on my own. Wine, books and my newest discovery - the record player. (So I'm a little behind the times on the record player thing. Or maybe I'm a little bit hipster. I'm not sure which is the better (or worse?) story to stick with).

The truth is though that New York is not all joy. And if we want to talk truth, truthfully New York has yet to impress me or win me over. On all sides it screams at you that you are not yet good enough, smart enough, rich enough, pretty enough. It drives you on and grinds you to the ground as you chase a faint hope of... what? More wealth? More beauty? The promise of greatness?

Who knows.

All I do know is that, from personal experience, I've found 'More' to be a very tempting lady, only to discover that she is actually a beast which is never satiated and who only wearies your soul in the chase. Lord help me.

Often I find the city crushing, but more in an emotional sense. It is thrilling and full of so many wonderful things to do and discover, but. I'm tired. Everyday there is a moment I just want to cry - be it out of frustration, stress, a sense of being overwhelmed or loneliness. Or, maybe its because on my run this morning I tripped and splayed myself out all over the concrete sidewalk. And despite it being 6am, there were at least half a dozen construction works to admire my beauty and grace as I skidded across the pavement. Ouch. Bless them, they didn't laugh. (goodness knows I would have had I seen it). So now I look like I've either been involved in a domestic 'incident' or attacked by city rats... But even then, I haven't yet cried. And I refuse to let myself give in. To cry would be to admit the city has defeated me or that the city is winning, but I plan to be ahead in this game of (wo)man vs. metropolis and will cling to the small moments of joy.

Tonight has been the warmest summer evening so far. And there is something about warm summer nights that bring hope for what is to come.