Writing Prompt: Where the Heart is…

As I stepped off the platform at Charing Cross Station, I knew I was home. Crossing the Thames over the rail bridge afforded me a view of Big Ben, The Millennium Wheel, The Houses of Parliament, St. Paul’s and in the distance, Canary Wharf. The city opened out before me and welcomed me back. I could see the boats along the Embankment crowded with people enjoying their drinks on the sun-kissed deck. I belong here, I think and I smile at memories of walks at night along the river.

Eventually, I wander through the cobbled streets of Covent Garden and I’m distressed to hear that the street performers might be banned. Outraged, I press towards Leicester Square and curse any authority that would dare deprive the public of its jugglers, actors, singers and musicians. They are London.

I reach the throng of Liecester Square passing my favourite wine bar and I feel a tug towards the door. Today, my will is strong and I remember my purpose. When I arrive at the top step of the National Gallery, I breathe a sigh of relief. The doors are open, Monet is only a few steps away.

I turn and look out over square and raise my eyes across the horizon and see Big Ben perfectly framed between the buildings and in my line of sight. Inside, I find my painting and drink in its colour. I wander into the gift shop and find a little copy. It’s a little bit of the day to look at and keep with me until I’m home again.

Writing Prompt: Where the Heart is…

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