London Calling

The Thames has never been so full, inches below street level, the dark storm clouds fill the sky and there is not a breath of air, the temparature has reached uncomfortable and the humidity is around 80%. Its June in London. The city holds its united breath in anticipation of the storm that will surely come, suited men are swathed in sweat, the working women have abandonned the poise and posture of the cool trip in, the Primark clothes are sagging and the sweat stained pits of man-made fibres crying out to Bond Street for rescue.

Commuters will be bitter and spark off one another rank indignant lightening. The pubs offer no refuge as the oppresive heat, smoke and stale air, this fetid atmosphere, will overcome all but the most ardent thirst. Praying for rain to swell the current further, Ark Royal lurks at Port of London as if to effect a rescue when the river bursts its banks as some day hence it must.

But still the city's pulse is racing, the commercial whip drives on its wearied toiling ranks. The bold financial centre of the world, wilting in the summers dim light, tarnished by the greed of enterprise, today truly resembles a sweat shop.

But on and on the engines drive, to fuel the nation, to pay for property and fund the wars, to burn in the administrative boilers of a gasping health service, on its last fag before the knackers come and we the willing many, like some throwback metropolitans, trooping underground, will oil the wheels again tomorrow and struggle back to the modern mills to pull our living wage.