Ironic?

Somebody at coffee-machine conversation told me they know that least 1200 Iraqis serve in Britain as Medicos

Lunchtime at Farringdon Road

Afternoons in the office between one and two.

Activity dims. Chaos and chatter leave. I almost have the place to myself. I can hear stray coughs, heavy breathing and soporific tap-tap of keyboards. A lunchbox is opened. Buses rumble on the street. A train rattles past. I can hear where I sit, five floors above. I eat lunch. Read a book review. The sound of rustling newspapers punctuates the quiet in the room. A phone buzzes quietly. There is a conversation in the next room.

The sound of a footfall entering the room, and the spell is broken!

Windy morning

It has been very windy. My walk from the station to 119. Meant to be summer, instead seems a pleasant winter's day. Hair stood up on end acknowledging the cold wind. Like buckets of invisible water hurled at my ears. Some other people were more shielded from the wind than I. iPods plugged helpfully in their ears.