Up early again, I packed my bag and filled in the forms needed to apply for a Chinese visa. Once more, the sky was a featureless, hazy blur, and heat gripped the city as we set off on yet another mission. Linda headed for Victoria Coat Station, where she would queue for one and a half hours to buy tickets on the afternoon bus to Swindon, while I joined the rush-hour throng in the tubes bound for Regent’s Park and the Chinese Embassy on Portland Place.
I had to queue for about 45 minutes to hand in our applications, then I walked up to Oxford Circus and caught the tube to Earls Court. It was swelteringly hot, and I sweated it out in a little café over a cup of coffee while I waited for Linda who eventually arrived, hot and bothered.
Linda bought a pair of reef shoes from a local shop, then we went to The Stockpot on Haymarket [actually Old Compton Street] for lunch before heading back across the river to St Thomas’ Hospital, where we waited on the 10th floor to see Lucy. From the windows of the waiting room, a new perspective of the river was revealed, stretching away towards the glowing sky above Battersea and Chelsea, beyond the four great chimneys of the power station.
At the flat, we finished packing, then set out on buses to reach Victoria. The air had become damp, and the smell of approaching rain joined that of asphalt, exhaust and hot concrete. By the time we dismounted at Westminster, a few fat raindrops were beginning to congeal out of the saturated air. We walked up Victoria Street, past the newly cleaned bulk of Westminster Abbey, and caught another bus which took us to the coach station.
By now it was raining hard, and thunder could be heard above the noise of the city. Our bus left on time and made its way up through Chelsea, past the Royal Hospital, and the rows and rows and rows of terrace houses, all looking empty, but each window hiding a piece of someone’s life, someone’s loves, or perhaps a little of someone’s insanity. From the first floor window, a man with Middle Eastern looks sat eating peanuts, staring out at the rain.
On out through Hammersmith, the roads were wet and black and slick. African music kept me fully from sleep, but still I dozed. I had two seats to myself until Heathrow, where the bus filled right up. An hour and a half later, we were in Swindon, and soon after that, ensconced at John and Sally’s house, where we filled in the evening playing tennis.
CurseOfTheTraveller 