The number 17 bus from Caledonian Road goes past King's Cross, around and up onto Gray's Inn Road and then on to Holborn Circus, which unlike the other two points noted here does not have an apostrophe, so let me state that the Circus of Holborn is a fine and gaudy affair, where a man might spend many a pleasant hour flanning and bidding good morning to the comely legal lads and lasses... City types glued to their BlackBerry devices because there must have been, HAS TO HAVE BEEN a message arrive in the ten seconds between stepping off the bus very slowly in front of me and wandering onto the pavement... Sainsbury employees... cyclists crossing the pavement next to the HSBC...
One might, were it not for the impatient taxis bipping their horns at us, my fellow Hollowavians and I, as we stand between bus lane and centre island waiting to cross to Fetter Lane and beyond, in a kind of pedestrian purgatory, rudley honked as if unaware that there are hundreds of cars we have no intention of walking in front of bearing down on us. Sometimes people in London are frantic for no reason at all, they just feel, perhaps, that they should get their retaliation in first and out-brusque you pre-emptively. There's really no need.
"White, Black, Puerto Rican, everybody just a-freakin'..."
This week the music has been funky, and I have read Hellblazer: Haunted, which might put a man in speculative mood about our glorious capital, but I haven't stopped dancing yet.