urban breadcrumbs

on the south bank of the thames, by lambeth bridge, a mini-disaster took place a while ago.

one day, a man, or a woman, or a child, was carrying a can of paint, or a pot of white glue, or a recipient with a mysterious white and sticky substance.

just about in front of the national theatre, the can or the pot or the recipient got punctured, by the beak of a furious attacking bird, or a stray arrow or some sort of spontaneous puncturing event.

and the white paint or glue or mysterious substance started leaking. and the man or woman or child kind of moved indecisevely around on the spot for a while, but then started walking, purposefully towards south london.

and they walked and they walked and they walked. and the paint or the glue or the substance kept leaking and leaking and leaking. and the resulting white line followed the bends of the river: under waterloo bridge (here some workmen, or pranksters, or abstract artists have taken out some of the tiles and put them back them in the wrong order, making the line all puzzle-like), past the london eye (here some cleaner, or busybody, or anti-white-line campaigner has tried unsuccessfully to erase the line), opposite the houses of parliament (where it becomes a dotted line, perhaps in an attempt to humble itself in front of the democratic powers), all the way to lambeth bridge.

and then the man or woman or child must have become a bird, or caught a helicopter or been teletransported to another dimension because just as you get to the other side of the tunnel, the white line (which has been your companion, or guide, or source of inspiration, or hypnotic mantra) suddenly stops.

and you're left -- like little hansel and gretel -- to wake up from your dream and find the way home all on your own.