If you ever wrote a book, I would buy it. You take the reader to where you are so eloquently.
How about this:
"London...my city, no one's city...
I awoke to the electric whoosh of the milk float on the wet street below my hotel window. Its bottles tinkled a morning reveille that was either embraced or despised, depending on one's willingness to be awake just before 5AM. Lucky for me, I'm one of the poor sods who actually prefers that.
The water from basin was cold...winter-cold, and served to wash away any remnants of the night before. By the guidance of the street light violating my room, I found my trousers and shirt from the night before, attempted to straighten my hair, then I silently slid through the door and out into the harshly-lit hallway.
The gaudy carpet led to the lobby; to say it was shabby would be unfair. Like much in this corner of The Smoke, it was just old and worn out, but still with us, like that old relative you see only at the holidays. You can't quite work out why she hasn't died yet, but somehow, you're ok that she hasn't.
With a nod to the early morning reception staff, I nearly danced through the squeaking glass doorway and outside, I found the city at its best, stretching, yawning, and waking, preparing for another turn of Earth on its poles.
London...my city, no one's city...and that suits me just fine."
Ta-da!
