Waterloo Sunset, remembering a golden boozy summer, haunted by Ray Davies ...

When I walked over the Jubilee Bridge, skirting encampments of pinched asylum seekers, recoiling from braying young men in dark suits, I glanced up at the early evening sky - it was late November - a choir of Santas was carolling on the South Bank, below the riverside terrace of the Royal Festival Hall - 

Over the glass ziggurats, the enigmatic tower cranes, the dome of St Pauls, was a delicate numinous sky - 

I heard in my head, very clearly, as I stood there, with my shock of white hair, Ray Davies singing Waterloo Sunset - 

I remembered the first time I heard this poignant anthem - it was a golden boozy summer - I'd grown my first beard - my dad completed the Times crossword every night - I had a summer job delivering drink for Smeeds Off License - I was dazzled by a slim French girl - I read Christabel listening to sad guitars - 

I'd sat with my brother, Nick, listening to the single playing on the radiogram - we dreamed our fervid dreams - 

Years later, I watched a TV documentary about Ray Davies - he seemed to be a shy, haunted, soul - Sophie smiled at me - did you catch the title of that song - "People take pictures of each other"? - 

Dark figures scurried past - the South Bank was illuminated with blue glowing cobwebs - my South West train sighed to a halt in the teeming station - 

Tower cranes and becoming smoke ...

After I'd been diagnosed with bowel cancer, I watched a programme on Channel 4 about tower cranes - I sat in my leather chair, silent and fearful, gazing at the spidery movements of these fragile titans, listening to the aerial philosophies of their operators - 

The cabs of the cranes were delicate glass pods in the sky - Steadicams provided glimpses of London far below - the thin shadows of crane gantries moved over deep excavations, bus queues, delicate churches - 

The next morning, I had an appointment at Poole Hospital for a sigmoidoscopy - I would wear my gown, give myself to clever instruments -

When I saw this crane, near Leicester Square, all of the memory of those hours returned to me - looking upwards, it seemed as if I was once more in that silent world, where nothing is certain, where you feel your body becoming smoke -

Looking at St Pauls, comforted by fallen leaves ...

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 - 

Ponds the ironmongers, hardware prompting thoughts about the value of one's life ...

I often make an excuse to visit Ponds, the ironmongers just off Wareham Quay, in St John's Hill - I'll buy a bag of coal, a net of kindling or a fire iron, so that I can enter this shadowy treasure house of shovels, scythes, delicate bolts, watering cans and hinges -

The premises are long and narrow, with passages snaking between shelving filled with intriguing implements - it is always cold and dimly lit inside - one of the lads, with his blonde pony tail, points to the small stove, fit for a barracks hut in a Kolyma camp - he says - we don't really need it - we don't want to get soft - a lean dog with grey fur stands before the boy - you can smell wood smoke - logs are burning within the belly of the stove -

I bought my gum boots in Ponds - they're black, thick soled, monsters - I can tramp through Sargasso Seas of mud with impunity - I found them, right at the back, near the tiny staff kitchen - outside, in the yard, are pallets stacked high with sacks of coal - a man with a monobrow and wearing a blue plaid shirt arranges garden statuary -

Anne once asked for a particular type of light fitting - within seconds, the blonde pony tailed boy had plucked the fluorescent tube from deep amongst the hoard - after a couple of years, you get to know where things are - 

Men with leathery faces and thick fingers come through the doors like gunfighters, asking for taps or sections of pipe - they leave theirs vans outside, the engine running - they hand over crumpled tenners -

I feel insubstantial, shadowy, before these chunky, oily, figures - what do I know of spirit levels or power drills?

I wonder about the shape of my life as I rummage through a box of copper screws - how many power points have I crafted, how many shiny presentations have I made? How should one be valued, or remembered?

Christmas Trees at Kingston, finding hope in sadness ...

Anne and Penny were finishing their crossword - they called out, in turn, the answers to the tricksy clues - Penny now consulted her tablet to confirm the name of a river in Siberia, or the author of a book of sermons - 

Outside, in the garden, silent blackbirds  gathered on the lawn - Penny shut the book of crosswords - we decided to drive up the hill to Kingston - there was a Christmas Tree Show in the church there -

We left Larksgate just as the pale watery sky was darkening - the road up to Kingston was very steep, curving sharply as it snaked up the hill - often, in the summer, driving up there, the red Peugeot would come bumper bumper with the Purbeck Breezer on the topmost bend - the top deck of the bus would be crowded with sun burnt girls and long limbed boys - 

Anne parked the Peugeot opposite the church, a few yards away from the Scott Arms - I remembered drinking Old Thumper there, one late summer afternoon - I was sitting in the pub garden - you could see the valley, with Corfe and its shattered castle, becoming part of heaven, peopled with angels - 

Maire's husband, Pete, had beguiled me with surreal anecdotes about his customers in the Yellow Shop - I wore an Arabic scarf - Anne and Maire remembered madcap escapades in the convent - 

Now the valley was full of shadow - the church was a sinister beast, cast in stone - but as soon as we opened the heavy door, we were bathed with light - there were bright Christmas trees clustered in the aisle, each one decked with poignant baubles - 

A laager of wheel chairs surrounded spirited grannies, listening to Tudor hymns - a small choir sang with great spirit - they were led by a smiling woman, who coaxed every note from their throats by her gestures and smiles - 

Tears came to my eyes when they later sang Stille Nacht, heilige Nach - I thought of my maternal grandfather, who'd gone to France, to look after horses - he'd heard this carol quiver in the icy air - 

 I looked at a Christmas tree hung with messages of remembrance - one message read, To my Dear Dad - I felt my heart twist like an eel inside my chest - 

I had to stare at a memorial tablet to the third Earl of Eldon to restore my equilibrium - then I saw, on one Christmas tree, the word hope, attached to a present wrapped in shining green wrapping paper - 

Hungover in Southsea, finding shy angels in Newcome Road ...

I woke up in Richard's house feeling surprisingly well - I'd gulped down a formidable number of bumpers the night before, as well as tumblers of Glenmorangie - then there were the real ales quaffed in edgy pubs - I remembered nothing of the taxi journey at three in the morning -

I leaned forward, pushing back the duvet - a book by Obama caught my eye on the bedside table - I dressed quickly, shaving as though I was a frontovik with no time to spare -

Downstairs, Richard was considering placing his first bets of the day - in icy stables, noble horses fretted, their muscles rippling under their sleek skin -

Phil suggested we go for breakfast in the Country Pantry - it then suddenly occurred to me that my arms felt ten feet long - I felt as though I had been savagely and secretly beaten - I wanted to drink a small swimming pool of fresh tomato juice -

My spirits lifted momently in the cafe - there were no brutal taxi drivers here, sitting at their special table - it was not assumed that I wanted tinned tomatoes -

Phil spoke of his imminent flight to Bangkok - he was not especially happy about returning, though playing cricket there would be some consolation -

Later, I went round to pick up my Kindle from Tessa - she was sharing a house north of Fratton Bridge - as always, her brilliant smile made me feel happy -

After I'd seen her, I looked at Newcome Road - my mum and dad had lived there, a world ago - now, those days when he was a young were even more precious to my dad -

I thought I saw him, bright eyed and quick, flying up the road on his bike - my mum was on her way to the laundry, to supervise the brawny women -

They were both like shy angels, hidden from common eyes -

Changing my tweed jacket for a kimono in the Great Court of the BritishMuseum ...

Napoleon said the Piazza San Marco was "the drawing room of Europe" - for me, the Great Court of the British Museum is the drawing room of London - 

Whenever I'm in London, I visit the Museum - I gaze at the Winged Bulls from the palace of Sargon II - they have the faces of grave counsellors - I then immerse myself in the classical world, feeling the weight of a silver tetradrachm in my hand, marvelling at a bronze mask of Dionysos, seeing Darius flinch before Alexander's stare -

But this time, whilst I sipped a latte in the Court, I was thinking about the floating world -

I'd spent the last dream filled hour in a reverie, feasting my eyes on prints of serene Japanese girls, entwined with their lovers -

I'd tiptoed round the dimly lit space, fearful that I'd disturb those rapt, ecstatic, couples -

I put down my exhibition guide with a sigh - I pictured myself wearing a kimono, not a green tweed jacket - a soft voice would whisper in my ear -

Above me, the glass roof showed the tranquil sky, a marvellous soothing blue, soft white clouds - I closed my eyes, feeling my heart leap like a young hare -