Earlier this week I escaped to London.

I walked amongst sleeping angels and broken stones in a graveyard where the earth tilts and the monuments are so overgrown it's hard not to imagine the bones beneath tangled in ivy.

I walked to the cellar of a Clerkenwell pub for a book launch, where I heard excerpts read from brilliant short stories by Philip Langeskov, SJ Butler, Leone Ross and Lee Rourke. I was lucky enough to be there to read from a story of mine. If you love short stories there is much to love about this book (and that's not just a plug. I'd still be recommending it if I wasn't in it, in fact here's the amazon link, too).

I walked from my hotel near Kings Cross, south towards the Thames, following the dome of St Paul's until it was hidden by buildings and I was lost in the streets of the City. I found a swan, which I took as a good omen (my story in the book is about a swan) and a sign that I was close to the river.

I walked along the Thames Path for a while and watched a woman with the gulls, picking for treasure amongst the silt and stones.

I made myself walk across the Millennium Bridge because I am scared of bridges.

I walked to Tate Modern the see the world distilled into Mirós stars and shapes and lines and ladders.

I walked to London Wall to see Dalí sculptures posed between lift doors in a lobby.

I walked to a wonderful museum where there are cabinets of bones and stoppered jars of fish and frogs and moles.

I walked to an exhibition of dirt. I saw slabs, which looked like granite tombstones, made from faeces, and house dust arranged in the pattern of an ornate rug on the floor.

And I found that sometimes, no matter how far away you are from home or how hard or fast you walk, you can't walk away from a sadness. And you can't bury it beneath dust or bones or even words.