It’s a release, really. No, a relief. Even though the mud. It’s not real, more a mixture of sandand water, but you get the idea. Pedestrians this way, who are they kidding? Albert so grandand gold up there under his Gothic porch, father of half the crowned heads of Europe. But it’s Victoria we remember. So, when the green parrakeets arrive on the bird feeder the scruffy pigeons gather underneath for whatever they can scrounge. The oligarchs’ limousines bark hungrily at the wrought-iron gates.
 
It forces the city apart like a crowbar. It imposes distance. It needs to be taken seriously. It constantly repeats and contradicts itself. It has a watery hollow at its heart. It represents unimaginable riches. It lays itself open to measurement with theodolites and long rattling chains.
 
The people. But of course, who else? And the grass, while the mowers are relaxing in their dark sheds, in a glistening coat of lubricant.