Writer’s Block.

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Sunday.
No plans.
Except to crack on with some much needed writing.

Sitting at my laptop and half an hour passes without a single word having been written.
Words are not forming.
The cursor is blinking at me expectantly, waiting for the writing to flow.

The same problem that has been haunting me for a couple of weeks now has resurfaced.
The dreaded writer’s block is back and I can’t take it anymore.

Suddenly, I slam the laptop shut, grab my coat and after shoving a notepad and pencil into my pocket I leave the flat. Not entirely sure where to go but just start walking.

My walk takes me through Stockwell, weaving down backstreets passing the Portuguese restaurants packed with locals watching international football games. The streets of Stockwell lead me to the river at Vauxhall. Walking along the river path, joggers pass me on their runs whilst cyclists swerve around me speeding ahead. The air is crisp and fresh with the cold weather. The sun is out and the leaves are ruby red and no longer on the trees but soggy and squishing together underneath my feet.

Next thing I know I’ve passed the Houses of Parliament, then County Hall and the London Eye and I’m on the Southbank. I watch the skaters and reminisce of Friday evenings sat on the side giggling at the boys skating and drinking cheap cider out of plastic bottles. The book market is thriving with people and an older gentleman browsing next to me buys eight books about boats whilst I rifle through the tattered plays.

I continue along the river and in front of me a couple are sitting on a bench. A young girl is in tears as a boy comforts her. I keep walking. The tide is half way in and people are walking along the riverbank as if they were on a beach. Past the OXO tower I go, passing a busker playing Carelss Whisper on his saxophone. The newly refurbished Blackfriars station is glowing with lights as dusk approaches. The walkway is brightly lit and my fellow walkers and I file underneath its new pedestrian tunnel and back onto the riverside.

I pass the Tate Modern where a man is making giant bubbles out of a bucket of soapy suds using a piece of rope tied to two twigs. I potter under the Millenium Bridge and through some tunnels until I reach the Globe. There’s a poster for the new season of plays which I always read with interest – knowing I probably won’t end up going to see anything.

Weaving through the narrow passages passing buskers and beggars, I observe the wonderment of the tourists who are seeing all this for the first time.

I reach Tower Bridge and walk through the docks. I pass a red and gold barge being painted by a team of men in overalls under flood lights – it has the Queen’s Crest on it. Crossing the bridge I have to slow my pace, to allow for others to take their photographs and marvel at the beautiful bridge. I soon reach one of my favourite places in the city. The Tower of London is lit up and proudly standing on the other side of the river. I walk past the front and watch the guards closing the gates. Three ice cream vans pass me in procession exiting the gates with their hazards lights on after a day’s work. I overhear a Beefeater telling a lady and her son that he’s about to go put the six Ravens who guard the Tower to bed.

The river path twists away and becomes a busy road. I walk along it my view of the river is blocked by big towering glass boxes that light up the city. I divert to see The Monument and St Pauls which sit surrounded by the modern architecture but do not look out of place.

Soon, I’m back at the Houses of Parliament. A group of girls are all sipping coffee on a bench by the river as their friend photographs them. A gentleman nearby appears to be filming a time lapse of Big Ben. I see another man walking 5 dogs all at the same time, causing much mayhem as they pass.

I continue along the roads until I hit Vauxhall Bridge and cross back over to the south side.
Before I know it, four hours later, I’m back home.

I open my laptop.
And the cursor sits there blinking expectantly at me…

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