Chinese New Year in London
I tested it: the railing of the escalators in the London Underground move faster than the steps. This is how I tested it: I put my hand as far up the railing as I could from the step on which I stood, and waited until I fell over. This is how I amuse myself, as if running through the labryinthian tunnels trying my best to get lost isn't amusing enough.
On the train down to London, I squished my face against the glass and pretended that the speeding landscape was leaving parallel imprints across my cheek. The mere thought of half my face flushed with blurred countryside is patently entertaining. Later I found more entertainment in leaving notes under all the tables in my carriage that read "Why are you looking under the table?".
Last night I went to a party where the air was so thick with hormones that you could sharpen knives on raw sexual tension.
London looks like someone's selected a sky-shaped block with some cosmic Microsoft Paint program, and filled it with rock-solid grey. One shade, for a sky I've seen explode in viciously rainbowed sunsets. Instead, I watched a quiet lawn suddenly ignite in a black explosion of pigeons that described a raced arc above my head, screaming round air currents and bursting into open air, while my neck cramped upwards and I failed magnificently to stop the exuberance from hammering my mouth into a grin.
The moment demanded a cued ray of sunlight parting the heavens, to silhouette the hundreds of outstretched wings and cast flickering shadows onto my upturned face. But that's asking for too much from our dour London.
Tomorrow I'll venture out of the zones into unchartered suburbia. Celebrations, reunions and warm fuzzy laughter await.