Like when a pen is picked up and writes on its own

Oh yulp. I haven't written a post for almost a week so this is what you get, a piece of stream-of-conk drivel. Well, the sun is shining mutely but overpoweringly through grey cloud (single grey cloud over London, probably looks like a lumpy duvet when viewed from an aeroplane window) and as I write it is coming and going, glowing as strong as a lamp in a teenager's ganja farm - one minute - and fading in cold afterglow the next. Cars a-go-go mostly downhill towards town [as I call the City Centre] on Finchmore Road. Occasional pedestrians.

The yellow tulips on the table are in a parallel world, strange aliens. The Camden rubbish truck goes by. Two men: one in a baseball cap, one in a beanie - pause for a moment to imagine that for them they are the centre of their day, their path under my window is an ingrained track in their lives, for them all stories all songs centre on them. Not me, how strange!

A smart car has pulled up at the foot of the steps. The car has wing mirrors with their own indicator lights, wing mirrors that fold inwards under remote control. The Mercedes dreamcatcher on the front is snapped off, though; even smart cars must have faults.

A lady walks down the street in flip-flops (good luck to you madam, have you not seen the forecast in the Cloud over London?) and on the opposite pavement, in the opposite direction, a man pushes a buggy, causing me to wonder why why why, it always intrigues me - the story behind the man pushing the buggy.