wrote on paper, transferred to teh netz

As I sit here in the polygon by Turlington, the sun keeps on dancing in and out of the clouds, his light growing bright and dim by turns. The wind is brisk, and though the walls shelter me, tree branches wave above me and I see the clouds racing each other across the sky.

For awhile I closed my eyes and pretended I was back in London - sitting against the pedestal of the Trafalgar Lions, the National Portrait Gallery to my right and the embassy behind me. Buses continually drive past, adding to the illusion, and skateboards over brick sound like British cars on the cobbles.
The chatter is plentiful and gay, and indistinct enough so that accents are irrelevant. Two smokers sit nearby, and the warm smell of tobacco mingles with petrol fumes in a truly English manner.

But it is merely an illusion, and when I open my eyes, I am still in America. I could easily be in worse places, but the paper folded at my side screams of bankrupt corporations, lying presidential candidates and murder.
I hear rumors and whispers as I walk, and I mark them down to investigate later.
Is Thabo Mbeki stepping down? I hope so, as long as the successor is not his own handpicked deputy degenerate.

The bell tolls the half, and I must go.
Until we meet again...