Diagon Alley

There's a tiny street in London's West End, not far Leicester Square; it's full of old bookshops and poster stalls selling arty bric-a-brac, like yellowed tearsheets from 1929 AA Milne editions framed as pictures. It's a magical little place, without traffic and hidden from the noise not ten metres away, but - while the street isn't hidden at all, and appears on maps - I can never find it when I want to.

I was there today, for the first time in a year or so. Hit it by accident on the way between appointments. Wandered its length, enchanted as usual, in a magical little break from reality. As if I'd somehow stepped into the Harry Potter universe and taken a wrong turn into Diagon Alley. Within minutes, it was behind me.

And now, I've forgotten where it is again.

But I don't think I'll look for it, or note its name when I do. Instead, I'll keep the street as a secret from myself, so whenever I find myself walking down it, it'll always be a surprise.