london days three

London my London.
Up at 7am for the legendary Strand Palace hotel breakfast.
Legendary because they let you eat as much as you like.
And 7am because I like to beat the rush.
The dining room was fairly bustling anyway.
I munched merrily on rashers, mushrooms, gugs (Heelers means eggs. - Ed note.) and anything else that was going.
Then back to bed to digest it.
By late morning I was ready to put my nose out the front door.
Wandered up the famous London street known as The Strand.
Apparently it was named after my hotel.
The ghost of Samuel Johnson appeared at my shoulder.
"He who is tired of London is tired of life," he murmured.
"He who can afford London has a stack of cash," I replied.
Our little ritual.
About a hundred yards from the hotel I found a cafe and wandered in.
Two hours drifted by.
I emerged from the cafe.
Another hundred yards.
Found a Starbucks.
Wandered in.
Another two hours browsing over newspapers.
Papers full of news about the progress of the Olympic torch towards Beijing.
There are protests against the flame by Tibetan protestors and those of us who support a free Tibet, every step of the way.
I can't quite get used to the sight of police officers from free nations beating up on these protestors.
I mean Tibetan Buddhists aren't exactly a violent bunch are they?
Leaving the cafe I process onward through the day.
A watery sun is gilding the marble at Trafalgar Square.
My homeless girl is waiting in the Charing Cross library.
She has her lovely brown hair loose and flowing.
And her smile.
Ah life you bauble.
Come to me.
At Leicester Square there are cordons and crowd control barriers. A musical group called the Rolling Stones are making a nuisance of themselves at some film launch.
The dreadful Martin Scorsese is involved.
I steer clear.
By nightfall I have found my way to Waterstones big book shop.
There is a Costa cafe in the basement.
The boss girl is giving a hard time to the South Korean waitress.
I try to stare down the boss girl.
I'm not that good at it.
Humbly enough I order a caffe latte and ensconce myself in a corner.
My notebook is open.
Now for the finest poem of a generation.