east to west and north and east again

a man sits by the canal with a fishing rod, a tin of sweetcorn, two litres of cider and a stern staring pair of eyes set on the shimmering water. punks and drunks mix by flower strewn narrow boats. works of art hide in amongst the graffiti. birds sing and chatter across the road from the hyenas. mansions stand the test of time failing everything else. tony blair's new home blends with the iraqi celebrations of a football match gone good. an old pub's ceiling's angels look to the spot where charlie chaplin may or may not have once stood. trees sway in the light breeze, cheering the sun on. girls and boys row in the serpentine waters, some with more accuracy than others. ice-cream is raised but discarded. more art is appreciated, underappreciated and overappreciated. a house is pointed out as the possible residence of someone's uncle. following a difficult word-play, warm tube journey uncovers lack of advertising in central parts of town. calm and collected. a park chills in the sunset; deer, rabbits and goats sharing space with squirrels, pidgeons and north londoners. south india visited for a pink while. and an old pub. and talk of religion. and a bus ride home. and good night.