London 15 - 17 March 2024 - Part 1
Arrival
The drive down is uneventful. Once I had packed my overnight bag, then unpacked it. Repacked it. Again unpacked and repacked. And finally stuck it in the boot of the Mini. Once I had done all that and headed out of town towards the motorway.
A full tank and a clear road. Under a grey sky. Chicago flowing through the sound system.
Be still my beating heart.
I'll be driving into London rush hour traffic. It's a rush-24-hour city. Gridlocked in the days of dog carts and hand carts. Now simply carstipated. But I won't have to drive while I'm there. Dan's building has an underground carpark. He has reserved me a visitor space for the weekend.
I call him - hands free, of course - as I am nosing my way through Hackney traffic. Relying on my satnav to guide me unerringly to my target. Like a Tomahawk. He meets me at the security entrance, guides me onto the ramp and jumps into the passenger seat as the gates swing closed behind us. (Will I ever escape now?)
He kisses me. Like he misses me. Directs me into the darkening bowels. Lights flash on, illuminating our way. Emotion detectors, I surmise. Dan points me to my space - V2. Okay, irony is alive and well among the swankier of London's property developers.
He carries my bag to the lift. Uses a contactless card to summon the car. He is talking to me. I hear his words and I reply. It's the sort of stuff that other people do. The lights at the far end of the car park start to go out. Are our emotions not strong enough?
The lift arrives. The doors open silently, revealing an interior of chrome and mirrors and brightness. Dan's hand is in the small of my back, gently guiding me towards the light. He passes his card across the reader. The doors close. We ascend.
The ground floor - Level 0 - consists, I later discover, of a convenience store, a coffee shop, a small gym/fitness centre, a noodle shop and a Turkish café. It amuses me to think that Dan and I both live "above the shop".
The lift doesn't serve this level. It continues to the Level 6, where it deposits us into a tasteful lobby, with two very secure looking apartment doors. Dan turns left.
[To be continued]
The drive down is uneventful. Once I had packed my overnight bag, then unpacked it. Repacked it. Again unpacked and repacked. And finally stuck it in the boot of the Mini. Once I had done all that and headed out of town towards the motorway.
A full tank and a clear road. Under a grey sky. Chicago flowing through the sound system.
Be still my beating heart.
I'll be driving into London rush hour traffic. It's a rush-24-hour city. Gridlocked in the days of dog carts and hand carts. Now simply carstipated. But I won't have to drive while I'm there. Dan's building has an underground carpark. He has reserved me a visitor space for the weekend.
I call him - hands free, of course - as I am nosing my way through Hackney traffic. Relying on my satnav to guide me unerringly to my target. Like a Tomahawk. He meets me at the security entrance, guides me onto the ramp and jumps into the passenger seat as the gates swing closed behind us. (Will I ever escape now?)
He kisses me. Like he misses me. Directs me into the darkening bowels. Lights flash on, illuminating our way. Emotion detectors, I surmise. Dan points me to my space - V2. Okay, irony is alive and well among the swankier of London's property developers.
He carries my bag to the lift. Uses a contactless card to summon the car. He is talking to me. I hear his words and I reply. It's the sort of stuff that other people do. The lights at the far end of the car park start to go out. Are our emotions not strong enough?
The lift arrives. The doors open silently, revealing an interior of chrome and mirrors and brightness. Dan's hand is in the small of my back, gently guiding me towards the light. He passes his card across the reader. The doors close. We ascend.
The ground floor - Level 0 - consists, I later discover, of a convenience store, a coffee shop, a small gym/fitness centre, a noodle shop and a Turkish café. It amuses me to think that Dan and I both live "above the shop".
The lift doesn't serve this level. It continues to the Level 6, where it deposits us into a tasteful lobby, with two very secure looking apartment doors. Dan turns left.
[To be continued]
