I woke up. I was making my usual evening commute in the swirling traffic, buildings and hum of London. A long day in the office had numbed me, and my robotic footsteps travelled past white marble and grass lawns of Trinity Music College, where broken notes and shards of scales hung in the air and gold light flowed on to the pavements. Canary Wharf stood across the river, twinkling its flashing lights through the clouds that hung to its tallest peaks and waiting for my return the next morning.
The acid green laser beam emanating from the Royal Greenwich Observatory – the meridian line. The beginning of time that the rest of the planet measures itself against – the start, 00:00. My eyes followed the bright trajectory, from the domed turrets of the Observatory, over tree-lined Greenwich park and the pulsing cars below, and over the dark waters of the Thames. Careering to the right of Canary Wharf and over the milky blue O2 Academy tent, it continued into the night until it finally dissipated into the darkness.
I envisaged my own trail, starting here and blazing through the early nightfall and taking me far from the tooting taxis, leapfrogging buses and blurred businessmen and women.