A shadow takes notice of a rickshaw.
This evening I visited London's glittering Leicester Square, appalled at how much I enjoyed the emptiness of everywhere – not guilty, just certain that I'll miss it when it's gone. There were cyclists and rollerbladers, and a busker in front of the Empire singing an arrangement of "Simply The Best" set to six notes, but the roads were clear enough to walk down. A lock-in at the World Showcase. The whole city looked like an arcade. I stopped off at the big Lidl on the way home, admiring once again the size of their barcodes, and only found out when I got in that this was meant to be a National Day of Reflection, which might explain why the Senate House – the inspiration for Orwell's Ministry of Truth – had been lit the colour of a daffodil, a nineteen-storey narcissus.
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