Is there anywhere in the universe, I ask myself as I wake up this morning, that is absolutely still? No particle in motion, no matter perishing or burgeoning, no string vibrating, no star exploding, no bubble bursting? No source of energy lying low, undreamed of, or revving up? Probably not, I tell myself. But would anybody know? Does anybody know?
Coming into London on the Hastings train, we watch the sky laden with cumulus, spread out over a new city: Canary Wharf, the Dome, the Gherkin, countless, tall, glass buildings and more go up. Round them, cranes cluster like curious birds, ( like the cranes after which they are named).
Anthony Gormley's life sized sculptures, moulded from his own body, are becoming familiar sights. We have seen them looking out to sea on Blackpool beach, and now a large number of them stand in prominent places on rooftops in the city and on either side of the Thames. From the new bridge, which connects Charing Cross station with the south bank, we look towards the City, and see who can spot the most Gormleys. We count eight (or is it nine?) from where we stand.