I woke this morning from a lovely dream sequence, holidaying with my wonderful girl, only for the harsh reality of waking alone to bleed into my consciousness.
My tired, caffeine-bereft journey through Kings Cross underground station was brought alive by the most incredible busker. His soul came echoing through the corridors long before I saw him - an old man, enclosed within a battered leather jacket and hat, clasping his guitar as if his life depended on it, and stopped over a tattered page of liquid-smudged lyrics. His mournful country song was so heartfelt; so heart-wrenching. His gravelly voice heavily stained with whisky. That man must have affected a hell of a lot of people this morning. He certainly made me feel a lot more human.
And then, the walk to my workplace, oh so nearly curtailed by the murderous intent of the tree-cutters working above Vernon Square.
I also dreamt of this place that I work last night. SOAS has been so good to me, and I will be sad to leave it next week. But life must move on. And the dreams of my girl are a lot more potent.