Stomping out of the town hall he walks, taking in new sights: cars skating across rooftops, yellow cranes saluting, dreary trees waving silent protests, garages and car docks and wine merchants, new apartment blocks abandoned, red-grey DLRs weaving tragically, Canary Wharf’s time-share cluster propping up the moon, the sun hidden behind a grey ceiling of concrete dust, the dense thick air carrying rain so thin it can’t be seen but you feel it cross your skin and wet your hair, you forget what weather’s like in this place it’s so good to feel this rain, these cool soft clouds like a grey paint brush splashed in water, anachronistic planes pulled along by propellers from Stuttgart and Leuven, piles of scaffolding build themselves up by day and into lofty towers then crumbling down to form new piles like sand beneath oceans –
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