English Breakfast – London, England, UK

With the issue at hand to rejuvenate rapidly depleting funds, and thereby perpetuate my nomadic existence, I arrive back in the less than nurturing motherland – England. My reluctance and apprehension of this is directly proportionate to that of the capital’s first indigenous inhabitant I practically stumble upon, who for all intents and purposes has "always just lived ‘ere." Having "just lived" automatically and suitably connotes his sheer existence, as opposed to livelihood. This response followed from the arbitrary question, "Um, so whaddya do in London?" I lend a partial smile, followed by a vaguely bemused expression and proceed with the task ahead: first and foremost, to locate an appropriate venue to rest my weary bones and pillow-seeking cranium.

An insane 6am dismount from the commendable National Express bus service (doot doo do doot doo doot, as the Divine Comedy song goes) enabled the accustomed killing of Time, coupled with the privilege to recognise the symbols of discontent in the collective face that is London. I was equally thrilled to be up with the birds (who ever felt compelled to compete for worms anyway?), the shiftworkers, cab drivers and, er… generic lunatics who hurriedly buzz about. At a more reasonable pace, I search for the mandatory "caffix" and morsels, tastier than the slug variety – at least that was the intention! A simple task, which inevitably lent more of its course to task than it did simplicity.

After departing with the most part of a fiver, for a polystyrene beaker of froth (thinly disguised as a cappuccino), then being sold by the flashing lights that boasted "Fresh Salad Rolls", I was least surprised to receive a marginally identifiable item, displaying more roll than salad, with more emphasis on roll, than fresh. This initial observation was confirmed when the act of consumption was applied (i.e., as the accompanying plastic cutlery snapped mid-sever of the loosely-defined cuisine, just-below-worms on the barometer of delectability, or even, edibility!).

Refusing to let nutritional content override the necessity to ingest, I opt for the stairs-between-apartments seating plan, rest the aching post-packing-de-postured-posterior to optimistically masticate in peace. Little did I know the economical option would result in an unforeseen cost for the bum. For it was requested – in no uncertain terms – that I rest it elsewhere. The ever-increasing familiarity of discontent in this environs enabled my immense appreciation for the unacknowledged strain of a humble, albehim impolite, street cleaner.

Hence, a venture to the nearest available park. Thank God for Soho Square in the middle of this jumbled linearity! I sip the remaining froth, still optimistic to enjoy the benefits of a caffeine hit, and munch on the somewhat metamorphosed bread, potentially harmful both to incisors and overall health. If nothing else, the lower lumbar also seizes the moment. Carpe diem, indeed!

Street dwellers are scattered amongst trees, sprawled across benches and circled on the grass – most of whom casually linger, still maximising their inebriation from the previous night’s indulgence. Some comments I decipher, but essentially their shouts, remarks and laughter dissolve into the morning amongst filters of thin mist.

Moments, minutes, mornings later – who can be sure? – a male from one of the grass circles approaches. Without presumptions, I simultaneously raise my head and eyebrows, suggesting a "hmmm?" (not unlike one of those gazillion fast food employees, with a deadpan grimace – perhaps that’s why the big, purple guy is named so in the most famous of fast-food establishments?), accompanied by the expression that says, "Can I help you?" Similarly lacking expression, this geezer quips, "I think you’re lovely and just wanted to give you this," and proceeded to extend a Gerbera-wielding hand!

To which my grimace, as if ashamedly, turns to a surprised smile and finally, returns to a puzzled expression. I can barely say "Thank you", and he’s about-faced to the circle once again.

What a bizarre exchange! For that sweet, albeit temporal, moment, London’s metaphorical arms seemed marginally ajar! Then again, this was doubtfully typical behaviour of the populous – must have been a fellow transient!

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