One day this past week, when I went to pick my young charge, Vincent Macleod, up from his school, he had forgotten his oyster card. So we walked from Battersea through the park and over the Albert Bridge. There's something pale and melancholy about the Albert. It's like something out Never Let Me Go. An abandoned boardwalk carnival in Brighton or Coney Island.
Or maybe there's just a sense that it's a bridge, not over the Thames, but over another time. A time where troops still marched over bridges and the last remaining toll booths still stand. The only ones in London.
Apparently, there are glaring structural weaknesses, but man is it pretty. Pensive and pastel by day and lit up by 4,000 bulbs at night. These things we build, repaint, repurpose, and barely use.
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