A large cock pheasant has just squawked its rusty way into this view. I’m trying to finish the last scene of a new short story, set on the no. 68 bus from Camberwell Green to Holborn. It’s near midnight and at the bus-stop, there’s a boisterous crowd spilling out onto the street. To bastardize WBY:
“How can I, that pheasant standing there,
My attention fix
On South London’s brawling politics?”
Now back to bus-iness.