Overwhelmed by the news from Gaza of thirst and destruction, I packed up my laptop and headed off for a walk. The evening was cool and dry – one of London’s finest.

I crossed Millennium Bridge and walked down past the Tate, and the handful of outdoor entrepreneurs dotted along its edge. In the air was the sweet aroma of roasting nuts, the drift of a guitar solo, and the last few bubbles from the soapy wand of the man packing his small business up for the night. Couples and groups came and went, languages blurring together.

I walked under Blackfriars Bridge, and on past the Oxo tower. Then came the booksellers’ tables and the racket of the skate park, followed by the brightly lit rims of the small stalls beyond the Southbank Centre. Beside me the tide was high and lapping at the walkway. I reached the carousel at the end and turned around.

By now it was dark. The lights on the bridges were on, and so were the red dots marking the ends of cranes to either side of St Paul’s. They looked like Christmas baubles hung across the sky. I took some more of the photographs I can never resist, and then returned past the busker and the nutseller, and the Tate, and walked up the ramp and on to Millennium Bridge.

Lying at the far end of the bridge, in a flourescent jacket, was the artist who paints its miniature, underfoot artworks. He was intent on his work when I passed, oblivious to the feet pacing past him. For all I know he may still be there now.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023