It must have been late November. I can’t remember the exact date, but I know 
it was a Tuesday, cold and damp. Misty. At dusk, that strange time when the 
streets are losing light and the city turns inwards. Plenty of leaves stuck to the
 pavements. Early Christmas lights reflected in puddles, strings of fairy lights 
buffeted by the wind. 
I’d been in hospital, which was a disorientating experience, then a long
 period of solitary recuperation. The feeling of liberation and independence 
when I could walk again was indescribable. I would get on the Tube, travel to
 random destinations and explore unfamiliar streets.

On this particular Tuesday I disembarked at St Paul’s station. I had 
been to the Square Mile before, of course, but always with a purpose.
 Constructions sites everywhere, it’s a place of endless re-invention and reimagining.
 Each time I visit I’m confused by the eradication of familiar

This article appeared in 187 on March 2014. Buy here

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