London. 6am

6am. London is an eerie ghost town lit by a soft, dim, fog-diffused light populated by shame, impetuous dawn-dwelling productivity and the shambling type of drunk only seen at first light. There’s a leaden, almost reluctant quality about everything around me, as if even the millennial walls of the Tower realise they’ve seen it all by now.

In the midst of it all, signs of hope. The sun, sweat forming on its brow, relentlessly burning off the fog. The cheery ‘mornin’ from a street cleaner. The bus driver, no doubt breaking every rule in the book, parked up in a bus stop with his feet on the steering wheel, blowing a smoke ring whilst twiddling a cigarette.

He sees me. He nods. He winks with a grin.

London. 6am.