Pain shoots up from my feet, running up into my legs. Feet crammed into shoes that are pretty, shoes that pinch, shoes that are meant for women.
50 yards to the Tube station. Forty. A taxi whizzes by. My hand in my pocket fingers the twenty pound note --
I do an about-turn.
'Sorry, guys. I'm taking a taxi home --'
I see an orange light, stick out my hand. Another orange light starts blinking, and I smile.
I climb into the taxi and give my address before sinking into the leather seat.
Five minutes pass. I rub my aching head. Cigarette smoke still clings to me: my coat, my hair, my skin. Laughter, chatter, the chinks of glassware -- all these sounds of socialising continue to drift around my head like wisps of smoke as I sit in silence. My eyes wander out of the window, where we are stopped a few hundred yards from where we started. The corners of my lips curl up. Almost midnight and the place still teems with light and life.
My eyes flick to the meter and an eyebrow shoots up. Perhaps London really shouldn't be so busy at this time of the night.
Still, I continue to lean back in the seat and enjoy how soft and thick the carpet on the floor feels through my thin soles. We finally make it onto London Bridge and cross the river, heading North. Looking right, Tower Bridge is flood-lit, perhaps waiting for another flying Ace to encourage his plane through the gap. My fatigue causes halos to ring each light source, and each light takes up more than its allotted invasion of the blackness of night. To the left, famous landmarks all sprout into view at once, each one crying out for my fullest attention: the London Eye, resting from tourists for the night, but still casting its watchful gaze over the city and its inhabitants; the Houses of Parliament, just visible in the horizon, looking grand and bracing themselves for the anti-war protests scheduled to take place tomorrow; boats on the River Thames, ploughing up and down, their sounds lost to me in my silent compartment gliding along the tarmac as they skim the water; the millennium bridge, Big Ben, St Paul's --
I catch my breath as we duck down into a Ghost town of the City. Buildings deserted, lights blaring, streets empty, a lone couple crosses the street. The air is punctuated by sirens, and a patrol car tears past. The City is sleeping, waiting for Monday morning, where it will once again bust alive in a hive of ringing mobile phones, briefcases, laptops, and grey suits.
Another turn, and we are scuttling along Embankment. The National Theatre, lit up in green and blue and pink, catches my eye. Its electronic billboard continues to flash, continues to promote the sales of its tickets, tickets that people will start queuing for in less than eight hours from now.
We drive further on, and pass the floating nightclub, and the river is obstructed from my view as we turn into Westminster. They say vision slows in the dark, and so it does, with the lights almost blurring into one another. The towers of Westminster Abbey are just visible as my eyelids start to droop --
I am aware of Buckingham Palace, lit by a soft glow, gliding past. It is followed, goodness knows how long after, by the imposing Arch taking up more of the windscreen as we inch nearer. We swing around it in diffidence and enter the West End, skirting around its edges.
Knightsbridge, and Harvey Nick's looks cheerful, ushering the advent of warmer weather with its spring collections. Not a soul in sight.
I almost give a start as I turn to look forward again, and the almost-neon lights of Harrods assail me. I smile, the times spent elbowing tourists and children to pay for tea, or standing in the queue for Krispy Kremes coming to mind. We sail past, and I see that the iron gates are up for the night, as surely as lock-out time at the Gardens occurs when the sun sets.
Almost there. The driver asks me a question, but I am too tired to think, and tell him to make the choice. The National History museum, a relic of a glorious age, opulent and imposing, looms to my right.
A final check with the meter as we turn into the street. The lights look the same to my bleary mind, and I have to make a few corrections before I realise where I should alight. I spot the blue door, and we pull up alongside it. The meter has stopped jumping, but the traffic still goes on.
Copyright Roux 2005. No part of this may be reproduced without prior written permission of the author.
