I love to start my mornings with a poached egg. The exactly four minutes it usually takes to perfectly set the egg white and leave the yolk runny left me, yesterday morning, with an overcooked, albeit jammy, yolk. Does the water boil hotter here? Even the lowest setting on the toaster burnt my bread. After this disappointing breakfast, we set out for Camden Market.

We walked around a little, but it was even crazier than Notting Hill had been, so we kept going. We wandered up through Hampstead High Street while quickly descending into that familiar jet-lagged hanger.

When we left the flat, it was gorgeous and sunny, but I suppose London is known for the same temperamental weather that Vancouver is so accustomed to. Within minutes of fanning ourselves and complaining about the heat (not me, I would never), we were shivering and shielding ourselves from sparse, oversized raindrops. We took cover in a packed pub. They sat us on the outdoor patio, sheltered from the rain, at least until the wind picked up and my dad’s long-awaited fish and chips fell victim to it. My elderflower spritz, luckily, was safe on the far side of the umbrella.

When the rain subsided, we headed back through Camden Market, which by then had far fewer crowds. I found a beautiful, chunky red sweater with cherries knit down the sleeves and ties down the front. It felt like it had been manifested straight from my imagination. We made our way to the Tube, catching the train we thought would take us to our station. It didn’t. We ended up passing it by one stop, or as we later learned, about an hour’s walk out of the way. We could have waited eight minutes for the next train back, but some of us are more impatient than others, and “we” decided to just walk.

This is a good time to mention that instead of paying for a cellphone plan here, we’ve just been surviving without our phones until we’re back at home base. A nice reprieve from the constant notifications we’ve all grown so used to, but less nice when you’re lost and not even sure which direction to head. With a combination of street maps and constructive family bickering, we made it back just in time for me to make a beautiful Thai red curry in the comically small pot in the apartment, using items we’d picked up along the way.

Three and a half minutes for the egg this morning. Still not perfect, but much closer. I wore my new sweater: a perfect colour match for my favourite red nail. Suddenly, the perfectly curated capsule wardrobe I planned for this trip isn’t satisfying me. I like to pack light (carry-on only), but I hate the implications of not having the options I want. I miss my leopard pants. And it doesn’t help that they seem to be all the rage here, I keep seeing them everywhere. I’m officially bored. I must find a vintage store to get lost in the second I get to Paris.

We got to Highgate Cemetery around midday, after a quick jaunt through the neighbourhood my mom lived in for four years. Perfectly caffeinated and enjoying each other’s company. We said hello to Karl Marx, found the grave of the Russian intelligence officer murdered in London in 2006, and had our path crossed by an adorable little black cat. As we got closer to George Michael’s grave, I couldn’t get “Father Figure” out of my head. No complaints: it was a welcome haunting. I later learned the cemetery had once been marketed to future clientele as the “Great Garden of Death.” Adorable and fitting.

We were off to meet one of my mom’s first yoga teachers, and one of Gucci’s former photographers, in Notting Hill for a beverage. From the cemetery, we had quite the walk through Hampstead Heath. We sped along, trying to catch all the sights my mom wanted to show us from her memory lane. We hit the men’s swimming pond and continued until we realized how deep into the park we’d gotten and how little time we had. From there, we asked several locals for the quickest way out, getting a different answer each time. We picked one and were well on our way, feet sore, running on dark chocolate, and tired.

At the restaurant in Notting Hill, I couldn’t help but drool over the delicate Italian glassware. My jasmine French 75 came in the most beautiful intricately etched coupe; flowers and bows all over it. We talked about yoga, travel, dance, psychology, but my favourite topic: our date’s past life as a fashion photographer. One of his clients was Gucci. He talked, in his Italian accent, about knowing Aldo Gucci, the challenges of being a spiritual person in such a fast-paced, materialistic industry, and his decision to step away, though not before telling us all the fun stories, too. I couldn’t help but smile when he gushed over photos of my past collections. Obviously.

We ended the day with dinner at a nearby hole-in-the-wall Malaysian restaurant, packed with locals. All of us eating in silence, not mad, just tired. We planned our final full day in London. A gallery day. Something I’ve looked forward to since the last time I was here. Somehow, no matter how many days I give myself in London, it never feels like enough.

Thinking about tomorrow’s poached egg.