The ebb and flow of bumbagged tourists that is Covent Garden. They stand in their socks and sandals in the rare afternoon sunshine and clink shiny pound coins into the hats of wide-mouthed mimes and Pop-eye armed jugglers. They scurry about the maze of shops that smell like mangoes, or pasties, or lavender. They stumble slightly on the cobbled floors but don’t mind so much because it’s all full of ‘quaint’.
I stand on the corner where two lovers once met for the first time. She was covered in comic books and smelt faintly of cat shampoo. He wore a shirt that said “Welcome to Singapore” in Chinese letters and looked much grumpier than he was. Despite these obstacles they fell for each other as London lovers do. With drinks in quiet smoky (back then) pubs, hand-holding walks on smog-warm evenings, and kisses in the ripples of orange street light bouncing off the Thames.
Sadly, as London love does, things fell apart.
And so I knitblast my lonely Covent Garden corner blue for the ghosts of London lovers that meet there over and over every time I walk by.