I really did feel like a tourist, strolling as I did, behind her, striding her way up Regent Street, trench coat flapping, insouciantly oblivious to the downward tug on one side. “Hurry, hurry, I’ve got to be somewhere!”
And like a tourist, I stopped, took the photo, marvelling at the long continuous curved line of Regent Street’s facades, seemingly seamlessly blending into one. How many times did I walk did street, I wondered, in the Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter. I always remember the Winter. Waiting at the busstop on the other side of this street (not the side seen here), stamping my feet, nuzzling my face into my scarf, waiting for the No. 12 to Dulwich, freezing, waiting, still waiting, desperate to be home.
How quickly my mind had wondered from the trench-coated subject to the architecture to my memories of wintery Regent Street. This, I suppose, is what happens when one finds oneself wandering in one’s old stomping ground on a summer holiday in July. You have the luxury to wander/wonder.
If you think I’m still in reminiscing mode, you would be right. Not that I’m going back anytime soon – fret not. (Damn.)