Sitting in a cafe next to the Globe Tavern, watching working people hurry home huddled in their coats, an occassional train rattling by overhead, a sizzle of electricity fires off the tracks, the blue lights under the railway arch flashing.
I want a bit of magic to happen, I say to Bails. Remember walking in Paris, it was freezing cold and turning a corner we'd come across a beautiful square, find a cafe, sit for hours with a thick hot chocolate watching some gorgeous Gaul drink dark coffee and drag slowly on a cigarette while reading the paper?
Unable to decide what to do we set off on a stroll along the Thames, a chill wind blowing, watching the lights on the water, hearing the still, away from the street traffic. Past the Tate Modern with its silver birches and then taking a peek at the Museum of... behind the Oxo Tower, swathed in flourescent lights. In the park next door the trees are twinkling blue and white. An Oberon in a black leather jacket danced around excitedly gazing up at the glittering forest, listening to the Thames lapping at the shore, shouting to his friend, drinking in the magic of the night. We laughed at his delight.
On we walked as our fingers went numb with cold, past the skateboarders and the new resturaunts and up onto Hungerford Bridge, where we passed a suitable Titania in a skirt made of chiffon and a sequinned scarf. And then turned away from the riverside to find a watering hole.
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