London proudly struts his assets in front of me. Unlike Nangkor who is subtle and less alluring, London shows off blatantly. No wonder weak suckers like me are attracted to him. He is the total epitome of perfection at this moment in time. He has it all and shows it all; the regal look of a king, the pompous air of a politician, the cultured defiance of an aristocrat, the confident elegance of McQueen, the poetic beauty of Shakespeare, the satirical humour of Banksy, the rustic brawl of the pound a bowlers, the gentle touch of a friend and the loving eyes of a lover. I hate him when he arrogantly displays his material grandeur but silently I agree that there is indeed a hidden truth in what he exhibits. He is truly irresistible!
One evening, he takes me to the banks of the river Thames. He gently guides me to the grassy lawn near the Tower Bridge. As he ruffles my hair and whispers in my ears he prepares my eyes for a spectacular feast. The young night clings to the last strands of daylight, when the light on the Tower Bridge, slowly turn on. The elegant blue bridge with its exquisite towers and designs exudes a phosphorous glow which sharpens against the deepening night sky. I cannot stop marvelling at the feat of the Victorian engineers who created such a wondrous sight.
The silvery trees with their bare bony branches silhouette the Tower of London, which sits in front of me on the opposite shores. The horrendous tales of wailing headless men and Queen Anne Boleyn shouting for mercy are the first pictures that come to my mind as the ghostly structure sits steadfast andd strong and I am thankful the Thames is between us. I shiver slightly as I think of the executions done there and look at the dimly lit water gate called ‘the traitors gate’ that leads the unfortunate soul towards its death.
The bells of St Paul’s cathedral chimes suddenly, it quickly brings me back from my reverie and I am happy to be brought back to happier times. Silently, I pray for Anne Boleyn as the chiming of the bell reverberates all along the banks. I look towards the brightly lit dome on my left, rising slightly higher than the buildings around it and I giggle. London is furious, such a sombre beautiful structure with years of history in it and I have the audacity to laugh he says. I cover my smiling mouth with my hand and muffle my giggles. I apologise but I can’t stop the comical resemblance I see between the dome and a cute little doodle I’ve seen years ago. They were all over my friends’ books and on school walls with the caption ‘Kilroy was here’. The picture had the head of a little bald man with a very prominent nose, peeping over a brick wall.
London forgives me. He nudges me tenderly and tells me it’s time to go home. I stand up reluctantly and walk towards London Bridge. Unlike the soft blue hue of the Tower Bridge lights, London Bridge is screaming for attention. The plain concrete bridge has a red hot in your face glaring slab of horizontal light spanning the whole length of the bridge. I look at it nonchalantly and I understand its need to be bold and loud as it sits against the backdrop of the beautiful, elegant Tower Bridge!
Finally home, he lulls me to sleep and promises me he’ll look after me, so long as I’m faithful to him. I smile in my sleep and dream of …