The second part of a moody collection of sketches, written after the style of my favourite writer and hero Ivan Turgenev...
The muddy river and steel grey sky provided an ominous setting for a smoke on the banks of the Thames. On this occasion I had nothing to write home about, half a tin of Cafe Creme Blues to amuse myself with as I ambled aimlessly along the South Bank.
It was a proper Autumn day and the cold, damp air whipped wearily, scattering a few dead leaves hither and thither, creating ripples on the surface a river which had once seen great fleets pour down its estuary to fight wars in Northern Europe, set up trading posts in far flung reaches or discover new lands. If the depths could talk I'm sure they would throw up more than just a few lampreys and a couple of Salmon.
Leaning over the strudy railings of the embankment, under the imposing gaze of the Hungerford Footbridge, I listended to the industrial sounds of trains shunting in and out of Charing Cross and became somewhat pensive...
Had it really only been a week or there about? A week of what? one might ask... of good news and bad, that you can be sure of, but not things to be shared in the gentle text of this sketch.
I turned my back to the clammy breeze and cracked open the tin of these all too familiar cigarillos, deftly shaking one out, placing it between cold, dry lips and lighting up.
A billow of cheap smoke went heavenwards but nobody seemed much to notice, so busy were they continuing on with their lives, wrapped up in moments which I was not supposed to share. As I puffed away, pigeons scrambled for scraps of food, young miscreants risked life and limb in an urban skatepark and chain restaurants were doing a roaring trade. But even with all this hubbub happening around me it seemed that I was in perfect isolation, alone in the crowd. Autumn has that effect, a transitional limbo between summer and winter where life seems to place itself into perspective and long put-off decisions have to be made.
I chuckled to myself as I lit another cheap cigar. I was meant to be meeting some people a little later on but there's a time for socialising, drinking and gambling and then there's a time for the simplicity of smoking, introspection and quiet pondering. It was in this mode that I could be found, blue tweed jacket against a slate backdrop in which the light was fast-fading and the buzz/hum of sodium lights was starting to kick in.
It was on days like this that you just couldn't beat London, with its indomitable spirit, splendid reserve and its multitude of places to quietly reflect in the day's gloaming...
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