My old stories

 I love big cities. London is the best, of course, with no offence meant to people who live in NYC or Paris or all these other awesome cities that I haven't visited yet. My family are more quiet-cottage-in-the-countryside type people, but I love seeing the clashing cultures and the buskers and the different people, shops and buildings, and I can find a story in anything. There was a tall black girl elegant enough to be a ballet dancer or gymnast; a Chinese man with his three-year-old son; two young boys out on their own for the first time. We went to London last weekend but unfortunately not today; we went to our nearest big-ish town. Here's a picture I took in London of a sideways Big Ben.
 By the way, if you want to get some food from Macdonalds at twelve o'clock... don't. It's SO crowded.

 Yesterday I rediscovered a story that I started writing when I was maybe 11. At first I was alternately frowning and cringing the whole time as I read it, thinking I'll have to change that... oh, that's awful... I shouldn't have done that... but as it progressed, the younger version of me obviously gained more skills, the writing got a bit more meaningful and profound, and by the time I got to the end I was thinking this is amazing. I don't want to change anything at all. But it doesn't seem like I'm complimenting myself - it's as though some other girl wrote that story, who happens to have the same memories as me.
 I will improve the story, of course, but I want to keep the essence and the spirit of it. Normally when I write nowadays I get wrapped up in trying to make it technically perfect. I will now try to get more emotion and fun and awesomeness in my writing.
 I found another story that I wrote even longer ago, just a short one, for the sheer heck of it. I just suddenly had and idea, and I wrote it! That needs some improving too, but when I've finished, I'll put it on here if you like. It's an OK idea, even if the plot's not up to much.