When Cities Dream

This morning canalside was dusted white. The roofs of boats painted with hoar frost, the towpath glinting thanks to its temporary crystal carpet. Neither the smoking chimneys of the barges, pumping out the intoxicating scent of burning wood, nor the runty sun were shifting the new palette.

I walked along the canal, boots crunching frost flowers. I left shiny impressions of my previous position on the path with each footstep, crushed silver ghosts. I exhaled dragon breath, stuffed my hands deep into my pockets and kept moving south.

The pavement of Little Lebanon was untouched by the cocaine spill whiteout. Its storefronts still a riot of colour as crimson cherries fought for space with pillar box red chillies and Tyrian purple aubergines. Even on a frosty London morning, some of the area’s shops still exude a sense of Middle Eastern heat

Finding my pockets too short of coins for either a Beirut breakfast or a coffee, I turned into the Georgian plush of Connaught Square. I made my usual nod to security and was frozen in place not by the Heckler & Koch holders, but the vision at the end of Stanhope Place. Instead of the usual burst of green, under frost and low mist Hyde Park was transformed into an inland sea. The street now ended at the start of an illusion I did not wish to shake.

For a few moments I was caught in the City’s dream of itself, a reverie of tides and rolling spray. When we dream we may become other people. When cities dream, they become other places. In trance, London allows itself to become so large and fantastic its imagined maps even include nautical charts.