The prompt was to write about a place that fascinates you. Here’s what I came up with (and it’s mostly fictional by the way, so don’t judge me):

It is nearly impossible to describe what drew me to London, only to say that I was driven; it was more than mere impulse, or – that horrible, whimsical term ‘wanderlust’. I’ve never felt that wanderlust accurately describes what goes through a seasoned traveller’s mind; it diminuitively fails to encapsulate the constant longing, the all-consuming hunger for the next trip; the new Jericho. This is how I have always felt about London. Somewhat inexplicably and completely irrationally, it has long been the backdrop to all my aspirations and dreams. I say irrationally, because there is no actual, tangible reason why this has always been the case. Tourists, as distinct from travellers – those casual meanderers of westernised interest points, those who have the dreaded ‘wanderlust’- tourists can usually point to why they want to see a certain place. “Oh, were quite keen to experience the New York lifestyle,” they coo, while lying by the Sofitel pool. By contrast, I could never say for sure what it was about London that so absolutely, convincingly lured me in. I never wanted to see Big Ben; I didn’t want to ride the London Eye. We had politicians and overpriced ferris wheels where I was. But I still wanted to see London.