It was 2014, the year when the British government admitted that there was no such person as ‘David Cameron’ and that for the last nine years the leader of the Conservatives had been a balloon with a smiley face drawn on it taped to the top of a suit. The public knew that they ought to feel outraged, but had to admit that it still had more charisma than Ed Miliband.
It was a Tuesday, and I should have been at work. The office, however, was currently out-of-bounds, experiencing a flood of biblical proportions. It really was a bad flood, only about 16 centimetres by 12 twelve centimetres by 3 centimetres. Bibles aren’t that big. It was really more of a puddle but, technically, and in the eyes of the management, it was a flood, and so the building had to be evacuated. The health and safety officer was beaming. It was his moment to shine (below a hundred watts, ensuring that all employees were wearing grade five protective sunglasses).
And so it was that I was wandering round London’s streets, watching the pigeons milling about, the tourists watching the pigeons, and the CCTV cameras watching the tourists. The lamp posts were... well, the lamp posts weren’t doing very much. Forget I mentioned them.
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