I don’t know where I’m going!
Wells Street bends left, it bends right—oh, wait. It’s actually a straight walk down.
Why did no one tell me that before? I totter toward the traffic lights, my fingers clutching my phone religiously. My ankle twists for the third time in five minutes. I knew I shouldn’t have worn these heels. I only wanted to look nice for the interview, but I know the rules. When in London, wear flats, because you never know when you might need to make a run for it.
Like now.
I glance at my watch and almost have a mini-heart attack. It’s just gone half two. The interview starts in fifteen minutes, and I still need time to find the place, congratulate myself, probably catch my breath, fix my walk, and maybe even go to the loo. If I have time.
There’s an unsettling chill prickling the air now. I know that feeling. Either there’s a dementor lurking around, or it’s going to absolutely piss down with rain. Balancing my phone and portfolio file in one hand, I root around in my oversized bag with the other and heave a sigh of relief as my fingers brush past the bristles of an umbrella.
My eye catches the familiar Sainsbury’s sign. I briefly wonder if I have any time to nip inside and buy a pasty before returning to reality.
Wells Street Journal 