do not sit on kangaroo

I've been whining, (or rather whinging as they'd say here), that it's not really summer, everyone's wearing black, it's too cold to swim outside, blah blah blah, and now, it's like the God of my Understanding is playing some kind of cosmic joke on me because trying to meet my friend Amanda for lunch in Soho was like swimming in treacle. Yuk. The Tube was a nightmare, so I tried walking down to Green Park (and ultimately, an ice cold air conditioned double-decker bus: sheer heaven!)



Along the way, went a bit nuts with my little digital Pentax, the unruly puppy with a mind of its own. I can't choose what it focuses on, there's a delay so I can't click the shutter when I want to, but every now it does something that makes me smile. Just like a good unruly puppy should. And it doesn't pee on the furniture.




I followed this girl, walking blithely down the street. She was the only one on the street looking cool as a cucumber, an apparition in white, unnoticed by anyone but me, carrying an open box as if she were a waiter with a steaming souffle on a tray. It seems she was posting a letter, but that still doesn't explain the open box.

There are six million stories in the naked city, and these are just three of them.