I wait for my coffee. I’ve given up the soy and am back to the skinny cappuccino. Bugger congestion and my lungs. I’m joining the consumptive poets.
The guy selling the Big Issue stands holding it aloft. He makes no further sales pitch. Standing straight-backed at the entrance to corporate Hades-on-Southbank, he tries to meet the eyes of prospective clients.
But many won’t meet his eyes.
They are no happier than you, I want to say, those who flow into their buildings on an invisible treadmill. But he probably already knows this.
I want off this treadmill.