A white wash that wasn't, more a blue rinse mottled in sum, grimey on the whole, London's no clime for a pastel piazza darlin'. The jazzy pinstriped porcelain patchwork of semaphore nautical flags would shimmer in Nice, but here, Blightily bedrabbed, the effect is all dusty soil scuffed self-pity. This bathroom refurb on a urban scale is the more gauche for it's boorish cafe lurching insoberly into the square, a shapelessly jagged axial jaunt, which instagram forgives, but, closer-to the junction details despise their inconvenient materiality. The adolescent squiggle of a lightwell, lurks murky, basking sharky and euphemistic. Downstairs acrobatically accomplished manouvres swoop and bevel in a tight latex of treacle black-lacquered lustre, beneath a ceiling rendered in an embarrassment of angles, sheared and gorged with murmurs of disquiet and..
"'ello Sir, I'm Angela [anxious.]
, and this is my colleague Lee [oleaginous]
. He noticed you hanging around inside earlier, would you like to tell us what you're doing. [flashes badge]
"
"A spluttering architect, honest gov. Loves a white tile me?"
No, my cordial exchange with the zero-hours class of London's privatisation enforcement was entirely without wit and was received utterly without humour. With a wimper, I went, out through the inch-thick milled metal barricade.
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