I am extraordinarily lucky in being able to work some of the time at home. Today, after a drizzly start, the sun came out so that I could spend my lunch hour on the beach
and, notwithstanding inasmuch as which, barefoot.
Now, slap me round the gob with a dead fish if that isn’t infinitely preferable to spending one’s lunchtimes in an office in a city that’s violent and overcrowded.
In a recent nocturnal emission, Boris Johnson, Mayor of London, whom posterity will show to have been the greatest statesman of this or any other age, actually boasted that the London Underground carries more passengers in any given interval than the rest of Britain’s rail network put together, and, moreover, combined, as if this was something to be proud of. When I am schnozz-by-axil in some sardine can stuttering slowly underground, especially in summer when the entire conglomeration smells like a wrestler’s jockstrap, I can believe it, and yet, I am given to ask – why?
Where are all these people going?
And to what end?
Couldn’t they be doing whatever they are doing at home, somewhere nicer?
Let’s hope not, eh? Else I’ll have to share my paradise with someone. And that would never do.