Bishopsgate. Precisely: I'm on a bus. In a traffic jam. I should be on a train. I should be home now.
PowerBook on my lap, I'm heading home. In the gutter: a Becks bottle; a bicycle chained to a lamp-post. Sodden discarded newspapers. Cigarette butts; chewing gum splattering the pavement around a bin.
On the lamp-posts: stickered no-entry signs; the end of the Central London zone.
The billboards: Tom chases Leo; Cleo affirms our worth, Edith wants to make our day.
On the headphones, P!nk is m!sundaztood.
A brick building, its previous stone decorations now outnumbered by letting agents signs, burglar alarms, fire hydrant notices twenty feet up.
Somewhere round here is the A12. The A12 takes me home. We share a dubious relationship. I took the train to avoid the A12, but somehow it's weekend-engineered its way back into my homecoming.
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