Paul's Houseboat at Nine Elms Pier

Last year, in icy January, we went to see Sophie - she took us to Paul's houseboat, moored to Nine Elms Pier - we set off from Waterloo and South Bank - we had snarfed exquisite rustic bread in an eatery near the bust of Nelson Mandela - the noble bronze head of the great man stared impassively at the creatives with their iPads, loping into the Royal Festival Hall - two buskers sang their songs under a bridge - the London Eye slowly revolved like a Sci Fi dark space portal -

We walked along the Thames Path, past melancholy barges - beyond their dark hulls, you could see the Houses of Parliament - I thought of all the clever words which had been said inside Barry's shell of Victorian perpendicular gothic -

We passed by the sinister ziggurat of the MI5 building - we loitered within the sleek courtyards of a complex of luxurious steel and glass towers -

Just before Nine Elms Pier, we looked up at a round tower, craning our necks to do so - one of the many towers in this Babel - a year or so later, a helicopter was to crash against its glass - fragments of shiny metal would fall to earth, aviation fuel would burst into ferocious blossoms -

It was low tide - a  narrow metal gangway dipped down to the deck of Paul's houseboat from the pier - there was a small floating community here, comprised of boats of various sizes and condition -

In the summer, there were parties upon the houseboat - a male tailor's dummy sported a dinner jacket - below decks, we warmed ourselves by a wood burning stove - there was a marvellous louche air about everything we saw - I imagined sleeping upon the boat, feeling the movement of the river, history as well as tide stirring its waters -