Have a walk round the Docklands developments in East London and you may well see where I gained the inspiration to write this.
Towers of glass and steel, juxtaposing ones of buff, brown stone, roads and bridges straddling scenic ponds and gardens. The mass transit system makes its lazy way between the towers. All around, there is a breath of industry wafting through the silence.
Suits and ties, crisp trousers and pleated skirts, shoes that shine like the solar glass of the towers. Shops glow, radiating soft light, giving a lustre to their expensive waves. Entertainment is never far away, with a great, crenelated oblong of a cinema shimmering on a side-street, signs and decor seemingly affixed to its natural shape. Restaurants and bars are tucked behind the towers, like cringing peasants at the feet of a dragon.
Within their walls, conversations patter and excitement hums in the warm security of the dark wooden walls, slick with lacquer. But what secrets lie in those gleaming, dizzying pillars that stretch above us all around, reaching into the blue? Who lies behind their windows and treads the floors? Are they resident or worker? Philanthropic or stony-hearted?