Work takes a different form nowadays from my labouring days. It is interesting to glimpse it from a London street.
On the lid of a rubbish bin in The Grove a square red Christmas card envelope with, judging by it thickness, a card inside. It has had a thorough soaking in last night's rain. The name on the envelope is illegible. It sits there a soggy reminder of loss.
In the queue in the bank a customer who has been waiting explodes angrily as he watches a teller counting little bags of silver coins. "Unbelievable," he says, "in 2012 to be counting copper and silver by hand!" It occurs to me that he is of the age that might equally have prompted him to expostulate if the teller had been using a machine, "you can't trust these new-fangled machines. Why can't we go back to hand-counting!"