Westminster Bridge

The view from Westminster bridge is perhaps one of the most architecturally striking sights in London. Sadly it is one that is never fully enjoyed. To cross the bridge involves a complex weaving effort, dodging a menagerie of tourists and their ridiculously ostentatious cameras. It was one of those places I tried to avoid in London, in that it brought out the worst in me - that irritated, impatient and slightly righteous character that infects both native and adopted Londoners alike.

Nonetheless, one of my favourite memories of my 14 month stint in the capital pivots around that bridge.

I'd been for a sleep study at St Thomas' hospital. They wake you up and kick you out at dawn (which, as an aside, seems a slightly cruel thing to do to someone with a sleep disorder). By 6.15am I'd gulped down a quick cup of muddy instant coffee, gathered my things and was heading back home. I emerged to a different Westminster Bridge than the one I'd left the previous evening.

Being August the sun had risen, offering up a clear blue sky and the promise of a warm day. Yet, the light was still soft and cool. The early morning mist still adorned the river, its tentacles slinking up and around the parliament buildings as if clinging on in an attempt to avoid the inevitable coming of daylight proper.

Apart from a few early morning commuters I had the bridge to myself. I paused for a while, at its centre, smoked a cigarette and soaked up the sense of 'stillness', the purity of morning. A peculiar sensation washed over me; somewhere between elation and awe, laced with exquisite insignificance. The morning was doing its own thing, oblivious to the sleeping beast that would soon trample the last of its spirit. To be there, at the moment which marked the cusp of day, felt both rare and precious.

Half an hour later I was home and the world had stirred. I made a superficial comment about how beautiful the bridge was, which amounted to no more that mere small talk. Indeed, until now I have never desired to share those stolen few minutes... the morning's unconscious gift to my jaded soul.

Some hours later I remembered the opening scene of 28 Days Later (as pictured above)... and smiled to myself.