mantra

Feet move swiftly on London pavements, clacking in stereo. The smell of the Jubilee line stays; clutch the hum and warmth of the underground to you like a shawl. Grey buildings with warm lights reveal suits with brogues, glowing orange under high ceilings. Cornices and a pot of tea in every room, Big Ben watching deadlines, towering. St Paul’s and the wobbly bridge not too far away, the Pickle a bashful beacon to get your bearings, the Shard promising more and more. Hours disappearing at Barbican, dark corners at the Tate Modern, looking for secondhand treasures in Spitalfields, market hubbub on weekends, wear your best dress – it’s Saturday night in Shoreditch.

Three floors of TopShop on Oxford street, Canary Wharf window reflections, tinkling pianos during high tea, slowly rotating on the wheel. Catching pigeons sneaking scraps from  bins outside the National Portrait Gallery, lost in crowds at Trafalgar Square, so in it, deep in Picadilly Circus. Make a decision: House of Fraser, M&S, Harrod’s. Leave the choice behind. Flee through winding cobblestones, your desperation seeping through alleyways. Find foggy solace in Hyde Park, lost in the world but for your squirrels and bronze companions. Calm yourself, stroll. The knowing will come. Know that London is what you want to get to know. This is the place; yes, there is something here for you.