The bus sways gently, and she opens her eyes, rocked awake.
Are they on Westminster Bridge already? Seems only moments since she got on.
The pavements swarm. She glances across the crowds. A cyclist passes, skimming her vision, speeding ahead and nearly clipping a man stepping backwards into the road to photograph his wife against the sweeping, magnificent river view, offices, spires, towers and ancient urban accretion.
A man (twenty five perhaps?) steps around the wife, politely refusing to place himself between her and the camera.
The husband is now two or three feet into the road.
The bus driver beeps.
The man scrambles back onto the pavement.
Her eyes make contact with those of the polite young man.
He stops dead.
His mouth opens.
He raises his hand, signalling.
But is left behind.