Tuesday.

The cold snap that had turned the city into a subzero meat locker for the last fortnight was over, but still, the bitter wind that whipped off the water stung my wet face. At the end of the bridge, I could see The Beatles (now on iTunes!) staring mockingly at me from the side of the BFI IMAX. George, Paul, John, and Ringo, all twenty meters tall, all judging me silently -- especially Paul.

"I see in front of me a very real, intelligent girl with two BA's. You can do this." What was intended as encouragement felt like criticism, especially sandwiched as it was in between mild, veiled reprimands. It only made me feel worse. Where do these expectations come from, anyway? Why do I insist on unconsciously demanding to be considered as such? And what does it mean to be "real"?

I stopped on the bridge. Behind me, Embankment and Parliament glowed warm and golden in the early dusk. In front of me, the trees and shops along South Bank glared icy white and azure, with the National Theatre and the Millennium Wheel complementing them in a defiantly electric blue. On a flat barge on the Thames stood two magnificent evergreens, decked in lights.

It's too much. I don't deserve all this.

I kept walking. "Welcome to Lambeth." I paused beneath the IMAX.

You don't have to look at me like that, Paul, okay? I know. I know.