‘All cities are shitholes and this one is the biggest of the lot of them.’ A man tells his friends walking over Hungerford Bridge. ‘There’s a body, face down in the stream….’ he begins to sing as I pause on the railing.
The rain had stopped in the hot evening breeze, water lapping in green. the theme tune of captain Pugwash echoed over the water in a surreal joke. It’s source, the latest boat ride for tourists in a R.I.B boat. Maybe they get to pretend they are being rescued from the Thames. And on the opposite bank as the din of too many buskers beats louder, a big pink route master bus is selling frozen yoghurts.
I hear the crowds amazement at a ring of b-boys. Beside the Eye a hen party hollers out ‘knees up mother brown’ doing kicks in their heels and squeezed on dresses in unexpected mash up of the decades. I walk up to Westminster bridge as the big bonging of bongs rings eight o’clock from Parliament, wishing light evenings could go on forever, that London could edit out its winters.