London: nothing to write home about
A buzzard swaggers on foot through a muddy field, like a bow legged farmer wearing thick, feathered trousers. A dead badger at the roadside is headless, its innards spilling out in silly string where its neck should be. We leave The Enchanted Village shrouded in mist as we head for London. On the radio, talk of deficits, job cuts, restructuring and redundancies vies with inane phone-ins about breastfeeding. At Canary Wharf, people stride out with no time to look while others sit at tables drinking foaming, unreal coffee. Windows full of clothes no-one wants. Newness, lights, shiny surfaces, signs, artificiality. On the tube there are guarded looks. A free Evening Standard left on a seat, iPads, germs. There are passengers texting Twitter messages to strangers while completely disengaged with their fellow man sitting right by their side. I head home, weary, and with a massive headache. That's about it Love Maddie x