Walking along the South Bank with my daughters, I mused on how much history and how many iconic landmarks were contained within a few short yards. When I decided to write a flash fiction piece, this little story (and the linkages) just seemed to pop into my head.
They agreed to meet at London Bridge and make another attempt to cross the gulf that separated them.
Walking along the South Bank, they made slow progress. The same arguments were replayed; until, outside The Globe, she responded dramatically – as she always did – leading to a public exhibition of tears and tantrums on the steps of The Tate.
He accused her of being theatrical and she shed more tears as they walked past The National and accused him of orchestrating their disharmony – in full view of the queue outside the Royal Festival Hall.
Eventually she managed to govern her emotions, but not until they reached the facade of the old County Hall. By then it was too late. Things had moved on, he said. He decreed they would never see eye-to-eye if they kept circling round in the same old way. As his opposition hardened, she came to the realisation there were some bridges that could not be mended.
By unanimous decision, on reaching Parliament Square, they elected to go their separate ways.
Here is the walk: