The City at Night (Danielle)

The wind is whipping, I don’t think I’ve ever felt the wind so harsh against my skin before. It’s like iced needles dancing across my skin as my heels click delicately against the glistening pavements, each slab reflecting a blurred vision of the illuminated skyline thanks to the downpour earlier.

I’m late. Fifteen minutes late and the clocks ticking. If anything, I should really be the mad hatter out of wonderland but here I am playing the role of the rabbit. I’m going to have fun trying to explain this one to the girls. I should have gotten ready earlier, and I really doubt they’re going to accept the extra-long flick of my cat eyes when they’ve been stood out in the cold, in November. Waiting for me.

London looks beautiful when the sun goes down, as the last snippets of daylight blur into twilight before the night sky lights up with stars and the unmistakeable glow of lights from the towering jungle of buildings. The almost silent clicking of heels stop and there’s a pair of hazel eyes cast upwards in a blissful moment or forgetfulness. That there’s not a late young woman trying to desperately make her way to Apollo Victoria, and then it’s back to reality, like losing angel wings and landing shakily back into perspective. I’m sure Londoners are used to, or even sick of the sights, but I’m could never be.  Then again, I visit now and again, like the birds that fly back and forth, here for summer, gone for winter and each time is refreshing as the day I stepped off the train in kings cross and immediately found myself swamped with admiration.

Let’s go out they said. Go see a show they said. It’ll be fun they said. What’s fun about catching the tube and accidently getting off at Leicester Square? Nothing. Apollo Victoria is still a distance away. And the sands are still slipping away from me. I can just see the ornate hour glass, clasped In the hands of two majestic dragons, gold laced and staring at me with the silent knowing that the kind of greeting I’m going to get is like the infamous fire the mythological creatures breathed In one, swift and fluent stretch of their jaws and exhale of breath.

The clicking picks up, an obvious signal that somewhere nearby  there’s a woman running in almost too high heels, ducking and diving through the bodies of fellow night goers. Avoiding the cracks and dislodged slabs of pavement as she less than gracefully trots into a brisk walk into the lights of the theatre. And right into the firing line of four, very cold, very annoyed looking she-dragons. I did say the dragons gave me that small look in my mind, and I endure the mock slaps of annoyance for the sake of the hugs afterwards and the welcomed heat out of the crisp November air.

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