Pigeon

There's a pigeon at the cake stall in Kensington High Street Station. One of those soot covered dark street pigeons that London has (alongside the healthier looking white doves, white dove crosses with street pigeons, wood pigeons and collared doves). Clearly a hankering after pink sponge cupcake crumbs this morning. Whether he arrived up the steps from the tube station platform or along the marble tiled atrium from the street passing those-that-can breakfasting at Bills is unclear but I smile at the infiltration of filth into the seeming perfection that is Kensington (they steam clean the pavements here, don't you know) - dog walkers with 6 hounds each walking in Kensington Palace in pristine workout kit, ladies lunching with their lapdogs in their handbags, botoxed and collagened into perfection, elderly couples in appropriate leisure wear (blazer and loud chinos, and a skirt suit). Its certainly far from Seven Sisters - insistent preachers, chewing gum street, beggars, winos, crush of inhabitants mingled with a drunk away crowd and a miserable home crowd (Tottenham supporters - I can never tell from their demeanour whether they have won or lost), overflowing rubbish bins, roots event flyers, fag ends.