Last night I dreamt that a bus route ran through my kitchen. It’s amazing what narrow spaces a double-decker can get through. Between the breakfast bar (it was a dream, remember) and the wall units without a scratch.
I have been back in London for three weeks.
On a bus travelling through the City I was struck by how perfectly the buildings abut each other, how perfectly the pavement abuts the buildings. How everything is clean and smooth and in good repair. Like being inside a shopping mall. The dirt and brokenness and bodge jobs exemplified by infinite thought are not here. Here are the kind of joints only possible with the help of computer design, the latest materials, surveyed, of course, by the total-control systems of our antiterrorist state. It strikes me because this isn’t a mall that is so scrupulously swept and polished and sealed and mapped, it’s the most ancient part of an ancient city. It’s under the sky. Rivers once ran here, and so on. I think that’s probably being sentimental. And sentimental value, I have decided, = no value.