Whitewash and Brick

This was the view from my hotel room in Victoria. As a Londoner (I was born in St. Thomas’ Hospital and brought up during the first six years of my life in south London), this view isn’t just a pile of bricks, but a reminder of a childhood home in the 70s, where whitewashed brick walls were the boundaries of our small back yard. There, the planes flew in high over the top of the house, three minutes apart, on their way into Heathrow. Here, they weren’t visible, but the faint sound of their engines cast me back to my early childhood, with baths in the sink overlooking a view very much like this.