A blessed day off for both Mette and I, she from the rigours of bookbinding, myself from the psychological erosion of a tutoring job.
A strange, misted aspect to the London distance as we descended to the foreshore opposite Tate Modern. A surprisingly soft sand at the head of the beach, touching the slab-like building blocks of the wall, but descending into the crazy detritus of the water's edge, where Victorian clay-pipe fragments mix it up with red brick shards, crockery of unknown provenance, clogged mud and other delights.
In the distance the tapering bulk of some new novelty-shaped monolith towers already, dwarfing Southwark Cathedral, while on the Millenium Bridge a pretty patchy saxophonist trailed through some standards.
I momentarily felt like waltzing in the sand, but Mette had already walked on, eyes glued to the beach in search of that perfect pipe.
Splendid afternoon, in short.
