Branch inThe Grove.
Some of the buildings in Tunbridge Wells - the main line railway station for example - seem to be constructed in such a way that you imagine, because one side is more impressive than the other, that what was intended to be the front is at the back and vice versa. Sometimes I have a similar impression with people. You see someone from behind to find when you have caught up with them that you have gained a completely false impression. You may say that one is misled by a false description.
In Piccadilly we board a Routemaster bus with a rear platform and a conductor. It must be one of the very last in service. It is painted a cream colour rather than the traditional red. The young conductor is too deep in conversation with a young passenger with a rucksack about uprisings in The Middle East, rebellions and freedom, to look at our bus passes. They are in agreement about the wickedness of those in power, authority and force of arms. This is London. Where else? A sense of fete is in the air. Bliss to be alive. Who can dissent?
If anyone wonders why the text is centred, it is because I have a formatting problem with Blogger.