Last weekend I was travelling through London alone. We used to go there a lot more often when I was little, staying with my cousins. I stayed with them again this time, but only for one night. I think the streets were quieter than I remember.
My aunt and I cycled through some place near Stratford—something to do with the Olympic park, I think. We went through this huge open space, framed on either side by glass buildings gleaming in the twilight. But there was nobody there; every floor of those huge buildings was empty. My aunt said the newly constructed flats nearby are mostly owned by property investors. They’re getting rid of a park to build more.
On my way back, as I sat in Paddington station waiting for my train, it was kind of fun to focus my eyes on one person, watching them as they flowed through the crowd of people as if they were the main character of a film I’m directing. Where is that old man in the buttoned-up blue woolen coat with a newspaper tucked under his arm going? What is that girl in the big black sunglasses and loud heels thinking as she walks purposefully towards the Bakerloo line? I can’t know.