Mostly cloudy skies with a high near seventy degrees while C. and I sat in the National Gallery, awaiting the results of our mandatory Covid tests so we could fly home.
As we pulled out of Paddington Station, I closed my eyes and enjoyed the announcements on the Great Western Railway.
One of those fine afternoons when you wander into a dusty bookstore in an unfamiliar city.
London. After six weeks here, I still find myself stopping in the street, stunned by how low the clouds hang on this island.
You can’t climb on Stonehenge anymore, but you can walk around it under the eye of a tour guide and two uniformed guards.
It was nice to believe in the future for a little while.
Yesterday I saw the birthplace of William Blake, now a strip of concrete between an Indian restaurant and an expensive handbag store.
London. Another day of clouds and drizzle, and somewhere off to the left, I can hear Georges Perec: “Question your teaspoons.”
Few things feel as eternal as a lone bus stop in the middle of the night.
London. A storm named Eunice is churning over the Celtic Sea, and the news is advertising it heavily.
I spent six hours looking down at the Atlantic, hunting for the distant lights of boats.
