the words weren't mine

I returned to the office, soporific, in a bready haze, with old London coursing through my veins and sitting heavily in my stomach. I was thinking of my fellow travellers in the queue outside Italia Uno, the Fitzrovia pigeon that couldn’t believe its luck, and the patient friends on the Tube to Edgware – all in search of lunch that private equity hasn’t touched. read more

IMAGE: Greg Girard