As I drove I was very conscious of Simone's presence by my side, and it was torture for me to concentrate on the road and not turn to stare at her. She was wearing Diorella again, and its sweet, sensual aroma filled the car. I would smell it for days and be reminded of her, a lingering trace of her beauty which would toy with my senses. She was wearing low waist, cream cotton trousers which were three quarter length, and her midriff and ankles were delightfully exposed. She looked stunning, the tight fit of the trousers accentuating the smooth, creamy curves of her bottom and the short trouser legs affecting to make her own look longer and more shapely. I couldn't believe how lucky I was to be in her company.

We parked in a side street at Swiss Cottage and took the tube into the city. Simone had asked if we could visit the London Eye, and as it was only a ten minute walk from Tate Modern we agreed to stop there en route. The tube journey was simple, a straight run through from Swiss Cottage to Westminster on the Jubilee Line, six stops and about twenty minutes. It was a little after ten when we stepped out of the newly refurbished Westminster Station, a monstrosity in black, and were faced with the vision, across the Thames, of the London Eye.

Whatever you may have read about the London Eye, it is a truly spectacular sight, a marvel of our times. The overriding culture in Britain at the start of the millennium is one of laboured and unpleasant cynicism, a sour refusal to look at anything in a positive light, but the Wheel is a true triumph, an aesthetic delight, a cultural treasure and a shared experience which can unite a nation riven by self-made divisions. It is, simply, beautiful.

Simone and I stood on the steps beneath Westminster Bridge, looking over the Thames at its splendid steel frame, glinting proudly in the emerging sun, with the grandly functional County Hall building forming a sober backdrop. It was so big. No matter how many times one hears how big it is, the first sighting is always a shock.

"It's fantastic," Simone said, unable to tear her eyes from it. "Stunning. I had no idea it would be that good." She turned and looked at me, and for the first time her cool demeanour slipped and a look of unrestrained excitement invaded her features. "We've got to go over the bridge and get close up." She grabbed my hand and dragged me up the steps onto Westminster Bridge, adroitly slipping past the hot dog sellers and photograph-snapping tourists. At that moment, I felt such a deep-rooted love for her I could barely contain myself. The touch of her hand in mine was intoxicating. Her chestnut hair, shining silver and gold in the sunlight, flounced around her neck as she hurried over the bridge, her eyes big and bright and sparkling with excitement, her nose, that superb, stunning nose which had first attracted me to her, looking vital and alive under the growing sun. As she walked, I was entranced by the fluidity of her motion, the graceful, feline slink of her hips, the sensuous, languid roll of her buttocks, her back straight and proud, and her breasts, beautiful, firm and shapely, quivering with each footfall, perfection beneath her cotton top.

We manouevred ourselves by the various stalls and eateries on the bankside and headed down past the former County Hall, now a collection of glitzy restaurants and gift shops, towards the Wheel. As we stood underneath it, staring up in awe, its sheer scale hit home. There were around forty pods attached to it, and each one could easily hold thirty people. As you stood below, watching it, you could discern it turning, slowly, very slowly, a stately progression one thousand miles removed from the garish, speedy rotations of fairground big wheels. This was in a different league, a different class, a sight to behold.

"We've got to go on it!" Simone exclaimed, jumping up and down on the spot. She was like an excited teenager, although, I realised, why shouldn't she be? She was only twenty, after all. And, it has to be said, I shared her excitement; I hadn't expected to be so moved by it, but seeing the Wheel for the first time I, too, felt I had to experience it for myself. Looking at one another, we nodded and laughed, then rushed into the ticket office. Since it was still early in the morning, there was not much of a queue, and we purchased tickets with a boarding time of only thirty minutes later.

Outside, we joined the back of a short, snaking queue waiting to get on. Progress was fast, and it was only a matter of minutes before we stood at the entry gate, watching the giant pods slide majestically anti-clockwise towards us. Those who had just been round disembarked with an excited chatter, and we were ushered towards the now empty pod. Because it moves so slowly, it never actually stops and you just step on to it, like walking on to an escalator. With great anticipation, we jumped aboard and were followed by about fifteen or so other people.

At first, while we were still at the bottom and running past the central columns and infrastructure, we could gauge the speed of our movement and it seemed as though we were moving quite fast. I was vaguely disappointed, as it would make the experience seem shorter. When we cleared the metal framework, though, and had nothing to track our movement against, it was difficult to tell we were moving at all. The pod was incredibly smooth, with no jerking or swaying whatever. I am not very good with heights, and had been slightly apprehensive about how well I would cope with being several hundred feet in the air in a completely glass pod, but I felt totally secure. We were both too awestruck to say anything much, and instead roamed round the pod, taking in the views.

Upwards we sailed, sedate and calm, and London began to unfold before our eyes. Buckingham Palace, where the constant flash of cameras suggested that the Changing of the Guard was taking place; Parliament, with Big Ben standing guard over it; at first the top of the Telecom Tower, then, piece by piece, moment by moment, the entire edifice, satellites sprouting from it like metallic mushrooms; a whole vista, the teeming, swarming swathe of London life. Wandering round the pod, we gasped in amazement at the beauty of the sight. St Paul's Cathedral, looking small and insignificant, hemmed in by lesser buildings; the Oxo Tower and, just behind it, the tall, square stack of Tate Modern, our next rendezvous; and in the far distance, a few miles down the Thames, the faint outline of the Dome, our other, less exalted, Millennium experience. Higher and higher we went, a gradual, graceful ascent, until we reached our zenith, the pods on either side of us at exactly the same level, a few feet below us; and then, after our all too brief moment of superiority over the rest of London, we began our descent; fifteen minutes up and fifteen minutes down, although the descent seemed faster somehow; and in total, a magical thirty minutes, a shared experience, our first together.

"Fantastic," I murmured.

"Amazing. Thanks for bringing me."

"Thanks for suggesting it."

"You get a different perception of the city, don't you? It seems alive. It's, like, got a life of its own. Down on the ground all you see is individuals, flying to and fro, living their own lives, having their own experiences, disjointed, unconnected. Up here, it seems like it's all connected. Like we're all connected."

"Just one community," I agreed. "If only we could see it like that when we're on the ground."

As the wheel spun round its 360º cycle and approached the landing area we trooped off, somewhat saddened that the experience was over: it had been a very quick thirty minutes. Simone grabbed my hand and dragged me towards the shop.

"I want to thank you for taking me on it," she said. "Let me buy you something to remember it by."

I would have no difficulty remembering this occasion, I knew, but I didn't want to be churlish and allowed myself to be led into the rather disappointing shop, where I asked Simone to buy me a glittery, lilac mug.

"Tea breaks will never be the same again," I laughed as she handed over the money and accepted the bag with my mug in it.

"Right," she said, fixing her arm in mine, "that's my little treat over. Now it's time for yours. On to Tate Modern. Where do we go from here?"

"Follow the river," I replied, pointing grandly down the Thames, "and look for the giant chimney stack." And, arm in arm, we sauntered down the bankside, the sun warm and encouraging on our backs.