One of my earliest memories is being photographed standing astride the meridian line in Greenwich. I don’t remember much else about the day, but I think I was about seven or eight, and it was one of the weekends when I was down in London with my family visiting my grandparents. I recall we had had to make quite a journey across the metropolis from their house in Harlesden, and that Dad had got me out of my wheelchair and was holding me up while the photo was taken.

Greenwich Park and observatory would have seemed such a wondrous, distant place back then: the destination for a family day trip, before returning for dinner made by my Yaiya. I don’t remember much else about the day, other than that crossing the city took quite some time. The strange thing is, though, these days I go through Greenwich Park fairly often. I love the view from the hill there, and I often think of that childhood memory as I pass the Observatory, usually on my way down to Greenwich.

Of course I could never have known back then how the next thirty years would unfold, or that that place would one day become so familiar; but I suppose that is the uncanny nature of time. Once distant destinations are now just around the corner, the intriguing has become familiar, and a city which once seemed so vast is starting to feel small. Yet I remember that photo being taken, dad helping me stand with one foot either side of the meridian line, whenever I go through Greenwich Park. If this is a future I could once never have imagined, then such memories anchor me to past in a way I find both pleasing and inspiring.