As the clock strikes one in the afternoon and the streets fill with men dressed in suits, and women clad in stilettos. Fenchurch street and the surrounding area begins to resemble Oxford Street on Boxing Day. Amidst all the throngs of people one sits alone outside of the train station on the now permanent fixture, a colourfully decorated Piano.
Each time I pass I see someone new, playing gentle tinkling notes, rocky 50's jive's, soulful haunting melodies. The sounds arise from the chaos surrounding. All other noises are dulled as these beautiful ensembles carry on. The tenacity of city life fades as and only you and the music exist. The sun beats down on this stranger and his art, pure concentration juxtaposed by the comfort and ease of playing brings a smile to my lips.
A day of many in London, a day I didn't want to spend there, is now suddenly worthwhile. For the two minutes that I hear his music I am happy.
He then gets up and goes over to his family who are waiting.
It makes me realise, again, why I love music, its instruments and melody's on days such as this.
