what many buildings lack: an escape. But it lacked something else as well.
A nostalgia shop we passed had looked strangely nostalgic, so we decided to pay it a visit. Apparently all nostalgia shop- owners spend their whole lives living in the past, or so I’d heard. On entering the shop, the immaculate disorganisation left us perplexed: three orthodox icons and countless postcards scattered on shelves at strange but precise angles, obscure books with foreign titles placed beside unconvincing and kitschy ‘antiques’. The gaudiness of the lighting made us sick. I say ‘gaudiness’, but none of the colours vaguely resembled my colour.The steady beat of Eric Clapton’s ‘Walkin’ Blues’ pulsed regularly through the disarray, and the woman at the counter smiled at me, exposing an upsetting absence of teeth. My watch whispered, “It’s time to leave.” The Cimmerian shade outside had allowed us to notice something about the Houses of Parliament. At the very top of the Big Ben tower, there was a room. It wasn’t obvious or anything, like a lighthouse might be, just a subtly-illuminated room perched quietly above Britain’s icon. Postcards left it out. Cameras disregarded it. I did not. I am willing to bet that I was the only person who knew about this room, until you read this. Hush now. It’s a secret.The room was both detached and integral to the tower’s being; I wanted to be in that room and watch London be. No one came to London for this by-day-invisible room. Except me. And you. Postcards and the cameras wrongly see the superficiality of the whole building, as if it has something to offer architecturally or something. No, this room should be the main attraction. It lacked a certain quality though. Irritating. What also annoyed us was the impractical access granted to the Houses of Parliament, a direct barrier to our desire. After turning our backs on that room, crossing Westminster Bridge towards
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