Eye of a greyhound.
As the train follows the curves of the rails out of London Bridge towards Waterloo East I peer out to see the progress of the shard-shaped steel and glass building know as the shard. The sharp point at the top pierces the grey, rain-laden sky. It is nearly complete. A crane still projects to the right just above its highest point to put finishing touches to the structure.
At the top end of the town opposite the high point of The Common an expanse of grass separates The London Road from the row of houses which includes the restaurant called Thackaray's where the novelist once lived. On the grass two women are taking photographs of two ducklings, which run about in front of them and peck at the grass. What are duckling doing in the middle of Tunbridge Wells? "They are mine", says one of the women. "I brought them to work with me today. I am just giving them an airing." She points to the larger of the two birds: "That one's an Aylesbury. I am not sure what the other one is."