Victoria isn’t Square any more, the City’s beginning to kick up its heels. There are bright eyes, secret smiles, sleek and silken silhouettes. You see the iridescent spray from the swift and oh-so smooth weaving of cars across a sinuous tapestry of rain-slicked streets before they vanish into the darkness, leaving a glowing kiss from their brake lights to remind you of their passage.
It’s the delicate dance to an intimate huddle under a coloured umbrella flashing out under the lamplight like a kingfisher catching fire, because it’s cocktails at 8 and don’t be late, dinner when you want, and ‘Round Midnight, well who knows who might be calling the tune. There’s a new rhythm and you’re riding it, and you’re hearing a sound that isn’t one, it’s a subterranean pulse and it’s beating like yours. You’re drawn to a place all a-glitter, with glimmerings of bygone glamour, shimmer and sheen, the ephemeral made material. This is tripping the light fantastic. This is it.