Scenic London

Today the people of London were especially filmic. Everywhere there were people who could be followed with the expectation that their life would lead you through a story that wouldn't be out of place in a movie.


Coming down an escalator after a man wearing his hair in purposefully multidirectional peaks, carrying a guitar case. Not a regular sized one, slightly smaller than normal. Pristine. He was careful not to bash it against the sides. Clearly a prized instrument. Off the escalator his shoes clip loudly on the tiled floor. I feel myself running after him as if he's a character in a French film, like Amelie, wanting to see how the story unfolds.

Jamaican woman sitting on the tube creaming her hands - rubbing them together over and over to get it absorbed. The left on has a tatooed skull with a ring over its head and some algerian font writing running up the thumb. Quentin Tarantino would linger on this hand as it engaged in some kind of deal, so that next time the tattoo is seen a little clue will slot into place.

One of those young blond men with red lips stands tall in the middle of the carriage chatting to a friend in tweed. He has grown a beard to add some age to his boyish face. He wears his open collar up. Hairy chest grows up his neck. A fop in a costume drama, not the troubled, dark, but ultimately good lead, but one of the sporty brothers or friends who is always bounding in with gumption to dance, drink or play the piano with aplomb.