It was not far to the pub but the swing bridge was out. It was a damp night. I stood by the railings and watched the spar of the low-lying barge pass by and the wipers on the car on the far side wag at me, tut tut. There was a smell of plastic and hops in the air. On New Cleveland Street I had crossed a bridge over nothing. Where maybe once a river and now nothing and the nothing filled in. The barge passed, the bridge swung back into place and I crossed. On the next bridge up is a house, a signal box once where the coast railway ran and now nothing. The barge chugged on and vanished.