Lindsey Twigg: A Scamper Through Belgravia

 

 I am not a spontaneous person.

 As much as I would like to be, spontaneity does not seem to be a part of my person. I plan. I execute the plan. Executing the plan is fun. Consequently, I am not one who will burst through the front door and be caught up in a whirlwind of starry-eyed wanderlust. This is most disconcerting.

The plan was to wander the Victoria and Albert Museum until closing before meeting friends for dinner in Belgravia at seven. Plan: see the controversial exhibition about protest, Disobedient Objects. Plan executed. Plan enjoyed. Katherine and I emerged from the hulking monolith that is the V&A googley-eyed and drooling (not really) in sheer wonder of its worldly treasures.

An hour and a half till dinner. Plan: walk five minutes to see the Harrod’s store windows then catch a bus to the restaurant. The luxury department store had just unveiled their Christmas displays, so as hundreds of high-heeled shoppers exited the building with the signature green-and-gold bags and stepped into their respective limos and taxis, we perused the miniature winter wonderlands full of tiny mice in footman’s jackets, ballet dancers dressed in Alexander McQueen, and generally many things we wish we could put on our Christmas list.

And here’s where things got a bit wonky. The bus system was complicated and neither of us had the means to navigate it. Fed up with my apparent lack of adventurous spirit, I moved that we simply suck it up and walk the mile-and-a-half from South Kensington to lower Belgravia. A moment of discussion later, we both decided to ignore the glaringly apparent question “Is it safe at night?” and just go for it.

The brisk walk from point A to point B turned out to be one of the most beautiful city walks of my life. Darling boutiques and immaculate residences with perfect, columned entrances lined the streets for blocks and gated groomed greens greeted us at every turn. Katherine made it her business to inspect the lovely door knockers. Street lamps with hanging geranium pots lit our merry way as we chattered excitedly from street to street. Little random alleyways piqued our interest and our default answer became, “Oh, we have time!”

Before we knew it, we had wandered into the Embassy District—the crowning jewel of Belgravia, perhaps. And here time froze. We scampered around Belgrave Square like children, giggling, letting things catch our fancy, succumbing to that funny thing called whim. We made a game of guessing the flag names, squinting at the plaque titles, waving maniacally into all the security cameras, and—when coppers or house guards weren’t to be seen—craned out heads into the windows. One had stunning light fixtures, another rich turquoise wallpaper, still another grand portraits of bearded fellows in stately uniforms.

And just like that adventure had found me. Pleasantly surprised, I smiled at the thought and sauntered on towards dinner.