“They are from the investment bank or one of those office buildings across the street.” An aged man with full white beard, the owner of the restaurant, explained to the young waiter, as he finally returned with his hand-written orders from the guests. The burly cook behind the counter barely looked at the small note which the waiter had timidly handed over. “They always have the same things.” The cook murmured to himself, as if he had already known what to serve. Shaking his head with an annoyed expression, he arranged the plates in front of the large steaming pots.

The short lunch break of the office workers came to an end, when the restaurant owner glanced at the clock in his cramped office by the kitchen and stood up laboriously from his chair with great efforts. It is his part of work to bring out the bill, even without being requested, and he would always put it in the middle of the table without words. The guests paid and left the restaurant as quickly as they came in, while still keeping on discussing through the doorway. “If you had a garage in this neighbourhood, you would never have to go to work in your life,” said the owner cynically toward the waiter, who was busy collecting dishes from the table.

The front door of the inn was painted in dark red, nearly brown or somewhere between them. I rang the doorbell and waited a while in the afternoon sun, then heard someone coming down the stairs. A friendly woman open the door and excused herself that it had taken longer because she was on the second floor. “Welcome.” She said and guided me to a tiny reception room at the end of the corridor.

The inn was run by an Italian couple. They were kind and attentive, but rather reserved and didn’t talk much. The woman handed me the keys to my flat, to which another entrance was to use. Her husband wanted to come out with me to show the way and explain a few other things about the flat. “It’s just around the corner.” He said with an accent.

We passed by a row of retail shops and turned at the first corner. On the narrow lane, next to a small café, there was an inconspicuous entrance within the solid fence of old wrought iron. The man typed the code into the device on the side and pushed open the heavy gate. We walked into a boxy backyard between high walls.

In the evening, as I went out for a walk, feeling the fresh air on the skin, the streets somehow appeared differently. The brick walls of the buildings were dimly lit by the street lights, showing themselves in dull yellow with some minute greenish hue. The black bars of window railings outlined a clear contrast to these walls. And the rest, if moving or still standing, seemed all gray in twilight; somewhat reminiscent of the fin de siècle East End.

He pointed out the characteristic shape of this neoclassic church and assumed, it would look like a toy block house of the children. I supposed he was right. He seemed to really like this elegant architecture from the early 18th century. Then, we went across the street. As it was beginning to drizzle, we finally reached the maze-like lanes and alleyways behind the market place.

The pubs were closing early in London, as always, and it meant that we would soon have to get the last tube. The same old routine or repetitive ritual of the day. While we were hurrying along on the wet cobblestones, I saw the pale steeple of Christ Church once again from a distance. And at that very moment, a chilling thought crossed my mind. Possibly, someone in the past had this same view as I was having… It was getting late, Mike reminded me. We still had a long journey ahead of us.

In the last decades, the City of London had developed its eastern district into a site of skyscrapers in high density; a strategical planning to ensure the City's position as a major international financial centre in the next generation. Hardly had these pioneers of modern architecture been completed, were they furnished with charming nicknames, which, most likely, the children’s playing house gave inspiration for. Also in other Boroughs, a large number of such ‘tall buildings’ were expected to emerge in the near future. London skyline would then be quite another.

Two weeks later. In the morning before I had to leave, I looked into the empty room and wondered, if one day, I would be able to come back here, to stay in this flat and see the Italian couple again. Then, it was time to go and I closed the door. I stepped out of the doorway, walked across the backyard and pulled the gate to get outside. As I saw the City Cluster from the corner, the upper floors looked vague in the haze.

I rang the bell at the front door of the inn, but no one was there. While waiting, I heard a buzz of busy traffic in the nearby streets, which was constantly overwhelmed by the hammering sound from the construction sites. On the other side of the street, I saw the woman from the inn coming back from her errands. “Oh, sorry.” She said in haste, being interrupted by the loud noise from the main street behind her. When the battering ceased abruptly, she continued in a calm but firm voice. “Our house here will remain for a long time to come.” She spoke with certainty, opening her red door.

— January 2025