English Irony
LONDON-- After arriving in Jolly Olde England, taking a train, then the tube, then a cab to the house of a friend of Mom and Nick's, I showered, I napped, then walked around the neighbourhood of Islington.
Following dinner I walked to a couple pubs, took photos of St. Mary's Church and generally gawked at the men, the women, the scene, the shops, the traffic, the cobblestones, etc., etc., etc.
But it was a moment in front of a real estate broker's window that really struck me. As I looked at £500-a-month flats and £350,000 homes (neither of which seem to be anywhere near this neighbourhood, or, indeed, this city) I nearly stumbled over a man.
A homeless man.
The irony bit me like a lion.
More soon... (plus those long lost pictures of the Rochelle Hills)...
Following dinner I walked to a couple pubs, took photos of St. Mary's Church and generally gawked at the men, the women, the scene, the shops, the traffic, the cobblestones, etc., etc., etc.
But it was a moment in front of a real estate broker's window that really struck me. As I looked at £500-a-month flats and £350,000 homes (neither of which seem to be anywhere near this neighbourhood, or, indeed, this city) I nearly stumbled over a man.
A homeless man.
The irony bit me like a lion.
More soon... (plus those long lost pictures of the Rochelle Hills)...
posted by Pedro_in_Wyoming at 4:38 PM
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