It was one of my favorite places to take a visiting friend at night, Westminster Bridge. Maybe walk all the way from Trafalgar Square, down Whitehall, pointing out Downing Street, empty under the cover of dark.
On the downside, it might rain again this weekend. On the upside, my garden looks more like Hawaii than the desert it’s supposed to be, and it’s Oscar night on Sunday. That merits a cocktail, a quiche and a long stay on the sofa critiquing clothes. Numbers 1, 4 and 5 are compliments of sofagirl who might not be present on these pages anymore but is very much present in my inbox and, by extension, today, in yours.
Last week I was doing the floor rounds with the Director of the hospital unit where I volunteer and, as I often train others, we were creating a checklist of standardized tasks. While talking, I observed how he perfectly coiled and tied an internet cable: “Do you have a touch of o.c.d?” I blurted out, pretty insensibly.
He grinned “Possibly”. In my world, it was actually meant as a compliment but I am always mildly relieved when I meet people who seem more obsessed than I am when it comes to tidiness.
Both of us spent many hours on buses in London. There is a quiet majesty in travelling on them. A gravitas as they move through the streets of the city we both love so much. We would rush upstairs and watch the city pass by as we headed for tiny shared flat. Miles from Berkeley Square where we worked, down Park Lane and Sloane Street, through Chelsea, across the bridge and into the deep South. The journey would take almost an hour. But it was worth it.
This poem says it all.