Dear London,
You were my first city. My first rush of excitement. My first sense of awe.
As a child, you felt otherworldly compared to the small town I grew up in, not only because of your iconic landmarks, but because of how alive you were. You buzzed. You roared. You sang. My Dad, born and raised in your streets, became our guide and storyteller. He knew the shortcuts, the secrets, the way your pavements whisper history if you stop to listen.
He led us through museums where dinosaurs towered overhead, science sparked curiosity and ideas leapt from the walls. We marvelled at the rebellious giant Doc Marten bursting through a Camden wall, and wandered into parks where pelicans perched as if they had always belonged. Because in London, everything, and everyone finds its place.
Joy in the smallest things. Racing my brother up the stairs of a Routemaster to claim the front seat. The thrill of sitting backwards in a black cab. The Underground rattling beneath us, its graffiti, colour, and noise wrapping us in something raw and electric. Faces of every kind, clothes in every style, piercings and tattoos we had never seen. London did not just accept difference, it celebrated it. The possibilities felt endless. You opened my eyes.
In my twenties, living at the top of Essex Road, where buses drifted past like quiet companions. I wandered into Dalston and explored Highbury and Shoreditch, places my parents once would not have ventured, but that now pulsed with creativity.
Afternoons in the calm of Little Venice, summers stretched out on blankets by the Hampstead ponds, wintry mornings in Borough Market, my hands wrapped around warm parcels of food, the air thick with spices and steam, the pull to taste just one more thing. And I was always hungry for more. Mornings, walking out of Fabric into the glow of dawn, realising the night never really ended. You remind me what it means to feel alive, and exhausted. The best kind of tiredness, the kind that makes you wish it was yesterday again tomorrow.
Even living on the other side of the world, you followed me. You slipped into my sketchbooks, shaped my designs, whispered into my imagination. I knew if I felt this way about you, others did too. You never left me, and I never wanted you to.
You became my muse, my workspace, my life’s canvas. I find beauty in your cracks and colour in your shadows. Beauty here isn’t polished, it’s layered, weathered, historic, and alive. Your rough edges only made you shine brighter. That’s your magic.
And now, as I sit sketching you, I realise you are stitched into the fabric of who I am, the heartbeat of my work, the backdrop of my memories - the setting where every version of my future begins.
Forever yours,
Victoria Eggs