Darkness had fallen as we left for Ramsgate. A routine journey, we imagined, enlivened by nothing more than the flagpoles in Parliament Square, erected, presumably, for the Royal Wedding (we hope the veteran peace campaigner Brian Haw has been invited, as it takes place on his front lawn). But then came the Embankment, where we saw the moon. It was enormous.

Just over the horizon, it dwarfed the buildings over which it loomed, and yet, in its pallid brilliance, seemed to be part of the illuminations, hanging like a paper lantern between the circle of the London Eye and the Hayward Gallery’s Neon Tower. A view that one might pass without comment became a Tivoli Gardens of enchantment. The moon came with us as we passed the blockhouse of the National Theatre, bathed by coloured lights. The red nought and crosses of the Oxo Tower, the stick-in-a-bottle skeleton of the Shard… London had become a fairyland.

Higher when we reached Thanet, the moon spread a silver cloak over Pegwell Bay. Next day, we made the return journey into the setting sun, pulling down the sun visors until the blazing disk became veiled by cloud. It sank like Isadora Duncan, trailing coloured scarves. Ying had followed yang: we reached home in a state of cosmic balance.