Things

There are places that mean things to us, but which of themselves are not necessarily meaningful.

Journeying home through subterranean London last night the tube train pulled into London Bridge station and I realised that this place, as ugly and nondescript as is may appear to the naked eye, is in a funny kind of way ours.

This was our access point to that first time, where we emerged, blinking into the sunlight in all manner of ways, and from where we embarked on our maiden voyage of discovery.

We spent a lot of time underground, whether in the cavernous spaces of seOne with the other freaks and fantastic people, wandering the darkened arenas while all around us pain and pleasure were meted out, or in the more cosy confines of a basement Italian restaurant.

This all got me thinking that we have much that is ours, that is untainted by previous histories or preconceptions.

We have the Giraffe, home of the best burgers in London. We have CC&K, which offers an uncommon welcome and serves the finest coffee this side of Twin Peaks. We have the Pheasant Lodge, which served the most wonderful smoked salmon and scrambled eggs for breakfast, and we have the wonderful hotel where we spent my birthday last year, with its amazing lighting, delightful sunken bath and gorgeous four poster bed.

These things are ours, from the ugly concrete of London Bridge tube station to the splendour of our seaside hotel retreat.

These things are us.