It’s not Westminster Bridge, it’s not even London Bridge.
It’s just Chelsea Bridge.
And it’s my favourite.
I crossed it running almost everyday for several months…then I started smoking again, I runned out of breathe and quit running.
But I carried on walking there very often, I carried on feeling damn lucky looking at Battersea Power Station thinking of the Pink Floyd.
I showed the view from the bridge to almost everyone I met in London. When I wanted to be charming I took people there.
Chelsea Bridge was my ace in the hole.
Until the moment I was there with a friend and after a three-minutes-long speech about Animals and the floating pig balloon, the girl looked at me and said “i don’t do Pink Floyd”. I never met her again.
But let’s be serious for a sec.
In May 2015 I was walking through the bridge after one of my running sessions and I got a call. Since that precise moment my life in London took another path.
I go to Chelsea Bridge every time I want to feel the hope I felt before May 2015, before that call.
Chelsea is my bridge. My hope. Always will be.
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