The weather is kind of drab and drizzle, and there’s a guy selling figs outside my window in a mating call mantra voice. Chrome-grey turrets are climbing into the skyline and there’s a cup with a chipped tooth in my sink. All this means that there’s a tropical November lumbering over like some half-deaf bassoon player, and the guy with the figs just reminds you that commerce and a loud voice go together, which is why McDonald’s has paid for right to stick its name all over the steep steps out of the London underground.
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