There’s this spot I sit in, when I’m waiting between jobs, where I sit, and just wait. It’s a good spot, practically, facing the river, a clearing in a stretch of restaurants and pubs on the river bank. A dozen wooden benches scattered about, direct view of the river, secluded from the street by a small block of flats. A small copse of trees to the left, and the lights and bustle of a beer garden to the right, the theatre a short minute away. But more than that, its beautiful. Beauty is many things to many people, the view of the river, long winding, bustling bridge and traffic and lights to my right, the calmer and darker footpath to the left. At the time of night and year that it was when I wrote this the water is deathly still, and deceptively reflective. The lights too are beautiful, the bridge to my right lit up with coloured floodlights, the shadows creeping up the supports, tips touching the road above. Directly in front of me, on the unlit river sits two or three houseboats, occasional lights flicker on as the occupants move around inside. The lights from the windows casting circles of twisted light on the rippled surface of the river. Also to my right is the many fairy lights strung the length of the walkway by the pub, lights so placed that they genuinely sparkle, creating an artificial warmth on this bitter cold November night. But to me the most beautiful part is the quiet, far away enough from the street to hear nothing but the occasional sound, the place is almost deserted, the pub garden has two men sitting the furthest part away from me, a couple or a lone walker passes by maybe once every few minutes, and each one has a story. A life, and motivations and feelings and a reason to be out walking in this cold dark night. That’s my beautiful.