Post 14: the strange case of the disappearing bus

And so the heavens opened. Suddenly. On the sudden, the calm day began to pour. There was whining in the streets, if cats could fly they did. A dog stuck his nose in my shopping. And the old gent had just missed the P13.


So when would the next one arrive?
The flashing neon hailed all arrivals for the next half hour. The blessed 39, the sainted 185; the 176, stalwart knight taking pilgrims all the way to the Elephant and the Castle and beyond. The 40 as well. Twice. But not the next P13.

Wait--I had seen a mention flash by a few eye flicks ago.  And then-- disappeared. Gone the way of the wicked into the chasm.

Again, and again, and again, no sign.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps up its petty pacing.  My skin crawls in the sour wind. We sit, imagining the funeral party for the P13, which must have met its end somewhere in Penge.

Having just had a courier fail to arrive after waiting for 6 hours, with false phone numbers displayed on my receipt and on their webpage; having just had a pay machine keep spitting out the 5p which would balance my bill;  I was not surprised, no, not surprised to be the witness of the disappearance of the P13.

And then, suddenly, it arrived.
From whence?
And why?

One is happy to be home, but the 'why' hovers deep in my pillow slip as I try to sleep.
Why why why





c. Z Soboslay 2015.

Post 10: London Bridge is Falling Down

So I realised, in coming in to London Bridge this morning how much of our sightseeing is angled high.  Look at the Gherkin, the Grater, the Shard. The immodesty of high architecture.

I wonder if the coffee shop where I met E. for breakfast is meant to be kept secret.  It certainly plays the part. Easy to miss;  maybe like le Carre’s Smiley,  it is meant to remain innocuous, blend in with the crowds.  Here is the building which houses it: blinking, forgetting itself, stepping back into the shadows of the alleyway, shaded well by the Shard. Shh, dont' tell anyone. It is earmarked for redevelopment within the  next 6 months. But luckily I am with E. who presses a  buzzer on a door so easy to miss that even  knowing it was there we almost missed it, walking back and forth several times.

Then we take the lift to the second floor,  climb stairs for the rest. 

Then we miss the restaurant itself, because...well, wouldn't you?

This is its innocuous entrance

                                                                 Clandestine London.




c. Z Soboslay 2015.