I have moved on from breakfast and now sit a couple of blocks away in a poorly chosen café at south Kensington tube station. I study with disgust the reheated scone and a piece of plastic shortcake on my plate that really are quite disgusting. As for the tea, well, I’d rather not comment.
Outside the sun is beating down, half of the people scurry about like mad dogs while the other half stop every few steps to check their maps and mobile phones.
A lady with a rucksack that just doesn’t go with her nice dress struggles to sit down in the tight space between us and opens a book. She is immediately disturbed by the lady behind who can’t get out of the tight space. Chairs shuffle and scrape on the floor and normality is restored, if for only a short time.
I can’t eat the scone or cake, they are just too disgusting.
It is time to move on and find a place to sit outside and watch the world go by. Its rich tapestry is about to weave another page and I shall be there to watch and record all the exquisite detail piece by magnificent piece.