At Westfield Shopping Centre I stood in the glass blade that looks down over the A3220; a sharp corner of a department store, and clearly a merchandising headache; vast gaps had opened up between units of trendy homeware, and half-hearted barriers cut me off from the absolute glass cliff-edge. I felt like a trespasser; like someone would send me back from the corner; like I would be challenged for my lack of commercial activity. I pretended interest in witty plate sets and trendy mugs, when all I wanted to do was look down at the people, traffic, roads.
It was the sensible way to get from a (busstop) to b (workshop) but nevertheless even stepping within its glassy walls felt weird; transgressive. My accidental wander saw me reject various eateries (in such a location even a pret feels impossibly luxe), accidentally stray through the luxury "village" past professional blondes propping up the noonday champagne bar, be spat into the back of a clothes shop by a rule-breaking elevator, and take a rest on one of the luxury leather sofas they have in lieu of benches. Mad and wrong.
I only took one photograph, but that was altogether representative. Not this one; this is from visiting Sophie (with princesses).
