Whenever I visit London, to meet up with Sophie, or Jay, or to look at installations in some sleek gallery, I always linger on the South Bank, gazing at St Pauls - there's the river, iconic, ageless - if I look closely enough, I can see its ghosts, some beautiful, some terrible -
The cathedral's dome reminds me of Italy, of baroque palaces, of narrow, exciting, streets, gaudy lambrettas weaving past cigarette smoking priests in dusty soutanes -
I no longer think I'm England, enveloped in a misty cloak of history and class - I'm walking in a vivid intense townscape, my blood zinging in my veins -
Whilst waiting for Jay, I stood upon the Millennium Bridge - behind me was Tate Modern, straight ahead was St Pauls - the Bridge was a shining pathway between the two dream filled structures -
Nearby was the riverside house of Sir Christopher Wren - moss bloomed between the cobbles - a man in a high vis jacket swept up fallen leaves - each dried leaf was a reminder of a past grief, yet a promise also of future joy -
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