I stand shadowed by Tower Bridge, buffeted by multilingual coos and clicks. The most pomp-jazz bridge in the world glitters above me, throwing stardust into our delighted faces to conceal its main purpose as an arterial route into the bearpits of the City. What a lovely con trick.
There’s lots of that around these parts. Buildings perform for the crowd, while inside deadening hands flicker at keyboards, fretfully, pointlessly. I guess the point is – you can see it, can’t you – something about books and covers. Oh, hey! Here we are in St Katherine Docks.
There, in the corner of the marinaplex, lies the multi-storey clapboard-and-redbrick Dickens Inn, replete with balconies redolent of the coaching inns of yore. I suppose they were going for a Corporate Tudor aesthetic. It’s a strong vision, you’ve got to give them that.
There it is, a Hanging Garden in modern Babylon. Nice.
It’s a bit sharp on the edges, and clean on the floor, to really get any kind of proper olde-worlde vibe going on. Ersatz yer lot, mate – but nobody seems to mind, seeing as they’re all too busy necking cheap rosé or crowding round sports tellies to give an eff about the authenticity of the place. And fair enough, you might say. At least it’s not a wine bar, or a sports bar, or a bar, even. It’s a pub, deep in one of the more optimally monetised leisure zones within the Financial District. It’s almost heartening to see tables stacked high with half-empty glasses and snack-plastic detritus – hey, at least you’re allowed in the door.