✉ I'm not sure why I've never spotted this view of Tower Bridge before. You just have to be here at the right time to get the shadow in the right place, which in this case was half past nine in the morning. It'd be a better shadow if only a Thames Clipper hadn't just clipped through it. The bridge is not busy which is good news for the tourists who have made it here and are enjoying the opportunity to take generally unobstructed selfies. The walkway has been divided in two to aid social distancing, with those walking north gifted the prime position on the edge of the bridge. The bus stop on the northern arm of the bridge has finally been removed, having been closed since Hostile Vehicle Mitigation Barriers were added along the edge of the pavement three years ago. Down in the Tower of London's moat an automated mower is moving back and forth keeping the blades in trim. This may be why the grass is looking greener than I've seen it for some time, but more likely that's because it hasn't been covered by hospitality pavilions of late.
✉ Sunday morning in the City is normally very quiet, but currently doubly so. The backstreets around the Gherkin are empty, bar two maintenance men who've pushed open an office block's service door to enjoy some air. I circumnavigate the building at ground level, hoping that my wander is at least providing the security guard in reception with something to watch. The bulbous top of the building is as dazzlingly attractive as ever. Demolition of the Leadenhall Triangle site has provided one of those rare opportunities to view the Gherkin's silhouette almost unobstructed, at least until the next 34-storey monster leaps up and blots it out again. I can't quite work out which office block is casting a green light across Fenchurch Buildings, but it totally improves the ambience of Willy's Wine Bar.
✉ Traffic on the Lea Bridge Road looks to be back to normal. Don't expect to be getting through those traffic lights in one go. The cycle lane which whooshes into Waltham Forest is looking slick, but intermittently does that annoying thing where it crosses over the pavement to maintain pole position. A number 55 drives past, reminding me it's six months since I rode my birthday bus, followed closely by a 56, reminding me it's only six months until I get inexorably older. The residential towers overlooking the station are finished so look impressively out of place, and the fact they called the development Motion doesn't surprise me now I've read the masturbatory hyperbole in the sales brochure. Vibrant quarter my arse.
✉ A stroll on Wanstead Flats is always a treat. A vast space, sometimes soggy, sometimes bone dry, crossed by an uncharted hierarchy of tracks. I chart a course from the Newham flank to the edge of Waltham Forest, past dry grasses, willowherb and unexpected orchids. The Ground Nesting Birds Conservation Area expired at the end of August so a couple of dogs are enjoying some newfound off-leash freedom. The twin sentinels of John Walsh Tower and Fred Wigg Tower watch over the playing fields, their facades a grid of uniform windows interspersed with satellite dishes. A few residents have slipped out through the gap in the railings for a bit of serious football practice. I find a wooden FINISH post, then START a few yards away, but no indication of the route inbetween which might make jogging worthwhile.
✉ Plashet Park is East Ham's own, a rare interruption to the grid of terraced streets. It's no longer particularly grand, the bandstand and drinking fountains having long gone, but remains a cut above the usual recreational rectangle with its tree-lined avenues and wrought iron gates. Several locals are out for a slow walk, a run or a good sit down, none of them from the same demographic that would have cheered the park's opening in 1891. In one corner is a fine redbrick building with Passmore Edwards [East Ham] Public Library written in raised letters across the front, and a clock telling the wrong time on a cupola perched atop. Its library days are over, thanks to rationalisation and cuts, and a brief afterlife as Newham Registry Office is also on hold. Heritage is such a burden nowadays.
✉ It's a grey day on the quayside at the Royal Albert Dock. A few canoeists are out on the water, staff from the council offices have nipped out for a quick smoke and a fuel truck is making its way along the length of City Airport. The Loganair flight to Dundee just took off two hours late, to be followed soon afterwards by the BA flight to Florence, followed by hours of uncharacteristic tumbleweed. Boxing practice on the ground floor of the Regatta Centre is proceeding with no attempt at distancing whatsoever. In the empty cafe nextdoor the barista waits patiently in case non-existent clientele might want a bubble tea or what passes as a fried breakfast. They're rushed off their feet at the start and end of the working day, he says, but it seems bugger all happens inbetween.
✉ The centre of the Greenwich Foot Tunnel, like the centre of Tower Bridge, just happens to be three miles away from home. South London is a fraction over, and remains unvisited.
