Mulled Vine

The autumn leaves raced ahead of the icy breeze, jostling for position like noisy children, swirling around my feet before skipping on in joyful exhuberance. I stood alone on Southwark bridge – disturbed only by the occasional scurrying commuter – dreamily watching the murky waters of the Thames flow by, while nearby a boat advertised Exciting Day Cruises, but now floated, groaning against its moorings, its solitary flagrope clinking mournfully against the railings.

My reverie was interrupted by a soft, plaintive, “Hello?” – I looked down to see a young man dangling from a bunjee rope, a few feet above the water – “Any chance you could help me?”

I stared at him for a minute, then shouted back, “Sure thing! Hang on!”

Smiling at my own joke I then proceeded to unhook the rope from its fixing on the bridge, and as I watched him fall into the water, spluttering some unrepeatable words, it occurred to me that these Londoners are a very strange lot indeed.