London bubbles

How often do you get to walk along London’s Southbank amid an array of bubbles? Perhaps not everyday, but perhaps we rarely notice them.

Today, as I walked along the river from Waterloo to London Bridge, something wrenched me from the dreamlike state I was in: great glassy orbs floating against the jagged skyline; a street performer infusing the city air with giant bubbles directly in front of the Tate Modern.

I stopped walking. And just watched.

One bubble lands on a girl’s long dark hair. She almost jumps out of her skin. Her friends burst out laughing, and she turns to see who else might have seen, catches my eye, and giggles. A smartly suited woman marches in my direction and slices the air to burst a bubble in front of her. A nuzzling couple drape themselves over the railings to the river for a bubble-infused selfie in front of St. Paul’s, whose dome gleams in the scant sunlight that breaks through the hanging November cloud. A bright-eyed toddler stands mystified before reaching high up to try and catch one. His father films on his mobile phone. A runner jogs past, breath heavy on the air. He turns his head for a moment, half-smiling, then turns it back, eyes fixed forward.

A minute ago, these were moving objects on a busy walkway. Obstacles around which to maneuver. Faceless and indistinct.

We love to exist in bubbles, we Londoners. Eyes down, music on, we cut through the crowds with tunnel vision. And with more than eight million of us darting in every direction, it’s easy to see why: it’s how we cope. But to have tunnel vision is to be partially sighted. Partially blind. Ignorant of the fibres that form the rich tapestry of this city.

I can't say if that was the point of the bubbles - art is nothing if not subjective - but kudos to that street performer. We must try to pull the world around us back into focus for a moment or two every day. We might just be surprised, and engrossed, by what we see.