On Sunday afternoon the train brought me into Victoria.

For some reason rather reluctant to return home immediately I decided to walk for a while. Knowing that in the house I'd rattle around to little purpose the thought of walking, even if no more constructive, seemed appealing.

The first time that I recall using Victoria station it was for a trip to France. The boat train and the Dover to Calais ferry twenty-one years ago. It's rather different now with new shops and fast food outlets but the basic fabric remains unchanged. The clock under which I once met Lee is still there.

Earlier in the day when we were lying in bed not quite sleeping yet not yet fully awake it had rained. The still wet pavement brought to mind the susurration of raindrops on the plats outside the open window. Now the air was notably dry providing odd contrasts: immediately with the puddles underfoot and and at slightly greater remove with the downpours of recent days.

Out to the forecourt and along the left hand side is a restaurant that had further memories for me. There's no escaping them and for most no desire to.

At the end of the short road a decision. Were I to turn left and left again I could be on the embankment within a few minutes. I walked there last autumn. First alone. Later with a companion. More memories, these better not disturbed. It would be very familiar. So ahead then. Belgravia holds a different sort of familiarity, not the intimate recognition of previous knowledge but a more general one, the knowing of a certain style that pervades the area so even never before traveled streets hold little of surprise.

Going west or east as the fancy struck I drew a crooked line taking me to neither compass point but north and so eventually to Hyde Park Corner. Number One, London. Queen Elizabeth Gate where it occurred to me that I couldn't recall ever seeing the gates shut before except in photographs. In fact I think that I've only every once seen it in real life without tens of thousands of Pride marchers crowding through it.

Park Avenue. London is a good city for walking but the traffic between Marble Arch and Hyde Park Corner makes this one of the less pleasant roads to take. Contrasts again. Mayfair to one side, the park to the other and between this barrier of noise and fume. Last time I walked on the opposite side and in the opposite direction. It was winter, it was night and it was raining. Somewhere along the length of it I made a promise that I am unable to fulfil.

Sunday on Oxford Street is curious. At first glance it appears almost as busy as a weekday but soon it becomes apparent that the crowds are slightly thinner and of a different character. The many visitors of an ordinary day now become near all that are to be seen. The usual leaven of Londoners for whom the street is a quotidien matter are spending their day of rest in other places so the people who are there walk with a slightly greater hesitation. Some brash and some diffident, most seem to be trying to mask whatever reactions they might have to what they are seeing. Surprise, delight or horror it's just not acceptable to admit to any such emotion so they stroll up and down pretending to an insouciance only to be betrayed by their craning necks and slightly wide eyed stares.

I hadn't intended to buy anything but a bookshop is always a temptation and so I go into Borders. Between science fiction and music my father telephones. I think that's a novelty as I'm sure he's never called my mobile before. It seems my parents are going to visit my sister; leaving that evening. Oh well.

I return to the pavement having purchased not a book but a compact disc. It joins the other things in my ruck-sack. "What have you got in here?" I'd been asked the previous evening. In response I reeled off the list. It raises a smile at least.

Someone had told me of a shop on Brewer Street where I might buy a shirt that I had admired. I don't bother with the detour but descend into the underground at Tottenham Court Road station.

For the first time in weeks the Central Line is running a through service. No bus replacement between Holborn and Liverpool Street so the journey to Stratford has no major interruptions just the normal punctuation of stops. During the journey I read for the first time the book that I had been carrying with me all weekend. Appropriately it's titled "Underground." An uncorrected proof in paper cover.

Somewhere in that tunnel I came to a realization. No disasters loomed, no fears to colour things darkly. A conversation in the early hours. A conclusion. If I could I would. I can. I will.

Matthew