The Houses of Parliament look splendid in the sunset. There's a metaphor in there somewhere. The politically-minded cynic might say something about the sun setting on the splendour of an institution of British democracy. By contrast, St. Paul's glows a faint, rosy pink.Nearby on the steps of a bridge over the Thames, a tour guide has managed to attract to her tour a whole one person. To give her credit, she's going for it 100%, putting her all in as though there were a small crowd at her feet, rather than one slightly bemused Spanish man. Unfortunately, she's just coming across as his slightly patronising, know-it-all friend.
There's something especially beautiful about London in the light of the setting sun after a long Summer's day. The streets – pierced with shards of orange light and shafts of shadow – are filled with smiling people, their shoulders still a little slack after shedding the stress accumulated during the day. Couples stroll at ease, pleased with each other's company. Friends chat about the pubs they're going to and have been to on other evenings. Mothers laugh at their scampering children, or coo over the younger ones that have tired themselves out – more worryingly, a dad is seen rescuing his young daughter from dangerously close to the edge of a bridge, where her curiosity has brought her.
See how no one rushes now like they did during the day – even the trains trundle across the bridges with less urgency. Over there, by the Tube station, an immigrant languidly hands out free London newspapers. Every now and then, a white man in a suit takes one. For some reason, that always seems to be how it works: in stilted English, the vendor chants his simple sales pitch he learned parrot-fashion, and once in a while his hook catches a fish that wants to feel (and look) ever so slightly more informed about events in London and the world. This particular suit has a young blonde on his arm, and says, as he takes a paper, “No, the reason I haven't divorced her yet is -” But the rest is snatched away on the wind, carried off to some other person's ears, one more part of one more story lost in the great melting-pot of humanity that is this great, sprawling city. We'll never know.
It's certainly been a melting-pot today, the air close and the sun bright. Clothes have been light and bright, if they were there at all. Summer, in all its glory – not typical British rained-out glory, but proper sunshine-pumping, Pimm's and lemonade glory. Look, all along the South Bank, under the London Eye and between the half dozen bridges, people enjoying themselves as only young people can. Strapping lads zip past on bikes, their shirts around their waists. Women lie sunbathing while the option's still there, ready to hit the town later on. Some watch as a bunch of lads muck about in a speedboat on the Thames. One of them's fallen in and is splashing about up to his waist – he and everyone else have a laugh – naturally he gets heckled mercilessly by his mates when they pick him up and pull away. In the distance a woman starts to sing an Italian operatic aria, her voice carrying beautifully through the streets and across the tiny waves of the river. It's all good, clean fun (except for the chap who fell into the Thames, that wasn't very clean).
It's easy to see why so many poets and arty-types love and have loved this city.
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