My Captain Jack Moment

All Hallows Eve and I am atop City Hall. Below me the stygian black of the Thames is broken by the reflected blaze of the lights of Tower Bridge. The skin of the flowing serpent is host to rippling spills of phosphorous white and floating instants of sparkling green. Outside on the viewing deck, the wind plays with my tie while my jacket flaps with exaggerated drama. If I was wearing my leather trench coat instead of the suit, this would be my Captain Jack moment.

Thanks to the curve of Foster’s mutated giant sphere dream – the famous ‘glass testicle’ – I can look over the edge with the usual attack of height induced panic. From below I can hear the water lapping the shore, the snap of tarpaulin and creak of the moored rubbish barges. Gulls engage in Spitfire-like dogfights, vicious screeches as they turn and dive.

From St. Paul’s to the Gherkin, the city has never looked more pregnant with the potential of wonder. The emerald glow emanating from the top of Tower 42 makes it look like the headquarters of a superhero team. I half expect to see Green Lantern or Sentry fly from it, possibly to tackle the huge cranes involved in redeveloping Bethnal Green which appear at night to an alien invasion force of red-eyed monsters mechanical monsters. In the distance, sodium orange lights in Shooters Hill look like a line of fire cascading down towards Kent, threatening Bromley with a stream of lava. At this height at night, London is Fairyland.