I watch the Opening Ceremony and follow the comments on Twitter. An MP from Cannock decides to ignite his own career, although its nothing worse that the stuff peddled every single day by the hateful Daily Mail. Danny Boyle is touted as a knight of the realm.
The train journey in on the Friday is eerie. It is oddly quiet. The streets, so quiet. A different kind of London. Work is tense. I am also compounding the tension with a hangover, from a night out, followed by a night in that was longer than it needed to be. I concentrate on a spreadsheet and work my way through my correspondence. I wander around the Square, at lunch and it is humid. Sticky heat exarcebates our fatigue.
I go home, via the party, and the buses are full of tourists and people in three quarter cut offs in beige. The night is lurid, bright and I sit and eat a sandwich listening to Twin Shadow, remembering the Dunn’s River hot sauce just in time. There is well-spring of things to tell someone, with no real way of being precise without being hurtful. I write an awful poem instead.