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About London

Me, I’d rather chop wood, drink whiskey. This prostitute huntin’? Waste of good air. Carlos had bombs, these folks got desperation. “I don’t negotiate with fools,” he’d say. Me neither—stay clear, pal. It’s a grimy game, always ends bad. Hate everything about it, swear.

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After a while, I got off at the next stop, just to stretch my legs. I ended up wandering around some random streets. I think I was on Station Road or something. It’s all quaint and stuff, but I got lost. Like, really lost. I ended up in this tiny park, and there was a bunch of kids playing. They were having the time of their lives, and I’m just standing there, feeling like a lost puppy.

Burnham-on-Crouch: Great British Breaks