The great red bus trundles, very slowly towards the river.,
Through another dull hangover buzz i watch from the upper deck.
I am not in my city i have no responsibilities here, this is almost leisure.
An endless grey city unfolds with such beauty in its fabric.
In the "The City" magnificent buildings, sit in their ridiculously cramped locations.
There the bank of England, (in a few hours from now, sitting for rich hours in the observation deck of the Tate modern, G will tell me something wondrous about its architect Sir John Soane and his tragic draughstman Gandy).
But now descend at London Bridge, and quickly deeper under the bridges into another world. The Borough Food Market, the smell rushes up, you are not prepared for its delicious power, all is weaved within it, rich Meats and cheeses, freshest of vegetables, vast skillets of exotic curries, Tarteflet, breads. homemade pate, golden pastries, food heaped upon food like barricades Your mouth has become very wet,
This autumn air is sharp cold and feel the cooking warm your skin as you pass as the odour seeps into your head as the crunchy colours spring upon your eyes.
And then, you see the sign "fresh hot pies!" and it is all too much.