3/5 ain't bad.

I feel a distinct lack of London in this blog over the past few weeks, but then again, I've felt a distinct lack of me. All those who know me won't be surprised to know that I get anti-social (something I would have been sterilized for in Nazi Germany) and draw into my turtle shell (much like Natanya Francey-Pants) but thus far, it's been the longest period of turtle-shell-wearing since 2004. Maybe it's the fact that I don't know people as well here (which may be the entire, easy case) or it's the fact that I'd rather feel lonely by myself than with others around me. Who knows, but the point of this wasn't to get into my head, rather to get into London.

London still has the uncanny ability to do my soul well. Things are always going on. The other day I walked by the Houses of Parliament and there were lots of reporters and cameraman set up outside the gates, the same as with No.10 Downing Street. No doubt the PM was in town. At the Tate Britain, I went into an installation that felt like something out of a creepy science fiction, like you were always on the run, like the lights were always searching for you. Electric pings and pangs of music reverberated against walls and string and the lights dimmed and darkened and I strained to read the words on the wall written in what only black lights could read. Along with that, an installation about birds in one artist's backyard. He named the magpie Evil Bastard.

Walking back along Whitehall, I noticed the horses and the soldiers mounted on them, so famous in their British stillness. I also noticed all the war hero statues and remembered that Shelli told me that if a horse was reared back, it meant the soldier had died in battle. If one foot was lifted, it meant that he had died from wounds obtained in battle. All feet? Died of natural causes. I don't know if this was true. No rearing up horses on Whitehall though. No dramatic deaths. Oh, those stuffy Brits, can't even bother to die dramatically in battle.

"I'm so glad that I'm an island."