Monday Morning...

A man walking by window just now was whistling a John Denver tune, Annie's Song, in perfect pitch. I just caught a glimpse of him... He looks about 65 or 70 years old, but walks more feebly than that. He was wearing a "bear bryant" style hat, shuffling along with his newspaper under one arm and an umbrella in the other hand. I wish I could pop out and introduce myself to him without seeming a complete crazy.

I can hear church bells ringing around the corner. The trees in the park across the street are turning golden and red brown. They'll have lost all their leaves soon. The pub man across the corner has swept up from the night before (the rugby world cup semi-finals were on over the weekend) and is now washing down the sidewalks. The borough's rubbish collectors are coming round to the dumpsters and recycling bins. A laundry truck just rumbled by and the cabs are picking up tourists and dropping them off again. There are a half dozen small-ish hotels within a block of us, so the drumming of luggage wheels bouncing over the pavement stones is a common sound. Many different languages and accents all converge on our little street each day and night.

The morning sun has burned off the foggy clouds that covered the city in a misty blanket at dawn. It looks like the afternoon will be beautiful. I predict that Brooks and I will head to Kensington Park Gardens to the playground swings after he wakes from his nap. Maybe we'll meet a friend there.

The start of another week in London...