Blades

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

It would be impossible to show someone everything that makes London London in one afternoon. It sprawls randomly across both sides of the Thames, a jumble of cultural interest (and disinterest), the city where no one bats an eyelid at the bizarre because the bizarre is the norm. As a Londoner I don't notice most of it on a day-to-day basis. It never strikes me that I've just taken a tube journey, or that the bus I took to the rink was red. The museums are a thing of my childhood and places that were once exotic and exciting are now simply old haunts.

There is something special, then, about seeing the city I take for granted through someone else's eyes. Sandy tells me that he'd been to London before on day trips, mainly for competitions, before he moved down here. "It's not the same, though," he says, and I know what he means. With training he hasn't had a moment to just wander about, really, so I feel I'm showing him my city for the first time. And, all at once, it's like I'm seeing the metropolis for what it really is: spectacular.

The afternoon I've planned is a whistle-stop tour of my three favourite parts of the city, decided on last night as Charlie and I plotted over Google Maps. So, although my core hurts and my hair could really do with a wash, we change and head off straight from the rink.

First stop is the Borough Market for lunch. We weave our way out of London Bridge station and across the road, zig-zagging along the route I memorised to the main entrance. I don't look at the Market as we round the last corner, but at Sandy's face. And it's priceless.

"Oh my Bonnie Prince Charlie," he says, and I giggle. "What is this place?"

"The Borough Market," I say and it earns me a light shove on the shoulder. There's a sign at least ten metres long telling us that.

"No kidding." He takes a step forward, eyes still like saucers as he takes it in: the enormous glass and green wood warehouse that is the Borough Market, one thousand years old, crammed with hundreds of food stalls from across the country. "I mean I'd heard of it, obviously, but when someone says market you don't really imagine..." I can feel how ludicrously wide my smile has grown watching him but there's no shrinking it. I knew he'd love it, of course, him being such a foody and all, but to actually see just how much he loves it, to know I've caused that boyish delight? It's like I've been sprinkled with fairy dust.

"Can we actually go in now?" I tease, "I'm kind of hungry."

He looks at me over his shoulder, eyes dancing and dark hair all wild and spikey. "Try and stop me," he says, before grabbing my hand and running through the entrance.

It's so packed with people that we have to dodge and wind our way through the throngs but his hand stays firm around mine in reassurance that he won't lose me. Everywhere that we turn there's a new stall of artisan cheeses or fresh cakes or curry powders and the smell soon sets me drooling. I'd normally be careful about what I eat – it's a by-product of being a skater. But, for today at least, I am filled with a careless abandon to just do what I want. We emerge from the market stuffed with hog-roast, olive bread, elderflower cordial and salted caramel brownies, and Sandy's rucksack filled with various things he knew Anna would love. I'm not sure why him buying for his mother is so attractive. One of my hands is still held steadily in his and the other clutches a small paper bag full of toffee. I'm telling myself that I resisted the gift hard enough to avoid implications but I doubt it's true.

Then it's a bus ride across the river and into the Theatre Disctrict. By now it's late afternoon and the October evening is already starting to draw in. The maze that is Covent Garden engulfs us in its magic. It is, truly, my favourite place in all of London for a reason I can't define. We walk down to the main square past the street performers it's famous for, stopping to watch a magic trick and humming along to a busker. The row of human statues catches Sandy's attention in particular and we waste a good five minutes in fits of laughter as he tries to stay as still as one man painted silver from head-to-toe.