I haven't written anything tonight because I was out at an event at the Globe Theatre to commemorate the birthday of William Shakespeare and launch the Globe's new season. By the time I'd got home and cooked dinner (Bogna was out with the girls tonight) and eaten dinner it was gone nine o'clock, and I gave up on the idea of fiction tonight. Which is good, because I melted my brain down a bit last night and I've felt awful all day.
Anyway (and this will only make sense to those of us on this side of the village pond) we were getting ready to leave work this evening and all of a sudden there was this amplified shouting and cheering from outside. We get a lot of tour buses down Fleet Street, so we're used to a certain amount of amplified commentary, but this was different, so we rushed to the windows, to see George Galloway on the rather crowded top deck of an open-topped double-decker, haranguing the homegoing throng about something we couldn't quite make out because we're four floors up and his sound system was really crap.
Yesterday evening, George, who's campaigning for a seat on the London Assembly in the upcoming elections, was processing down Holborn when someone hoicked a stress ball at him. This time, nobody threw anything.
Looking down at George from our eyrie, I saw that he was right at the front of the bus, standing on the front two seats, and was being carried down Fleet Street in much the same manner as Kate Winslet in Titanic. King o' the world, eh, George?