Bus Journey

"Can you tell us when you get to Picadilly mate?" Picadilly is such a silly sounding name, especially when said out loud. The kids on the back of the bus are singing advert tunes, espeically the krazy frog ringtone 'tune'. The light dips slowly, lengthening days - spring is definitely in the air. Anti-war protester in Parliament Square has an impressive number of badges on his hat - more badge than hat actually, and a large collection of banners. Silent, staunch and alone he stands facing the Houses of Parliament, hunkered down into his coat. I bet none of the stuffed shirts inside give him a second thought. In Whitehall we passed a horseguard without a horse, looking short and vulnerable while balancing a huge white plummed hat on his head with a serious looking underchin strap, as a small gaggle of tourists try to make him smile. A couple of doors down some other kind of guard suspiciously eyes a tourist who has sat down on a ledge of his building to tie his shoes. Swinging into Picadilly where the once lovely bright neon lights have been spoiled with backlit advertising, the man and his kids get off and greet their mum on the side of the road.