Greenwich Park is round the corner from where I live (that means, in London terms, a good 10 minutes drive). I go there on Sundays and mingle.

In this city-oasis you can watch anonymously and for about £1/ hour (prepaid at the car park’s ever so greedy machine) plenty of Japanese tourists flashing their cameras, joggers with their MP3s running their daily route, children paddling as fast as they can on their pushbikes, dogs catching rubber balls, squirrels bearing their nuts in the freshly mowed loans. Activities are endless, all species welcome.

Taking my usual tour, I pass the Pavilion Tea House, wave at the Bandstand, greet the Flower Garden and the Deer Park, than, after a good hike on my way back, I take a moment to say ‘Hello!’ to Queen Elizabeth’s oak tree which rests there peacefully, untouched by rumours, undisturbed by madness, telling for centuries the story of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn dancing under its branches.

I come to a halt by the Royal Observatory, where London, lying solemnly ahead, amazes its crowds with a feast of breath taking views.

This is the place where I get to be alone with the city, for with one glance, the eyes can embrace the National Maritime Museum, Canary Wharf and the Cucumber. The mercury-grey sky sets the scene, almost a warning: ‘hope you have not forgotten your brolly today!’ …No, I haven’t!

River Thames, rushing towards its appointment with the North Sea, is a good reminder that time is running out…At least for my parking ticket.

So, I bring my wonderful encounter to another end, in my favourite spot: the Meridian Line. And there, right there, standing on top of it, with the East in my heart and the West in my soul I feel almost complete.