Sitting at a window table in Wagamama in Mount Pleasant, I see a woman behind a pushchair, a baby inside, a grown up child beside her. Almost every projecting part of her face - upper lip, lower lip, eyebrow, ear, nose, has several rings through it. Her children are unringed.
On a bench in Mount Pleasant, I look up to see the spherical clusters of last year's seeds on a plane tree hanging among bare branches.
A joke about jokes just about passes muster. An Englishman, a Scotsman, a Welshman and an Irishman go into a pub. The barman looks them up and down, and says: "Is this some kind of joke?"