in London

London, and the city's as wild and loud and dirty and beautiful as ever. The low gold sun blanks the side of the british library, and crackles like a sparkler on the towers of st pancras. I'm sitting outside euston, killing time. It's the ugliest station, but here, in the warm evening with the milling crowds and smell of coffee, it feels buzzy and good. At one side of the square there's a stall trying to sell electronic cigarettes. The salesman explains the benefits, with exaggerated gestures. The statue of stevenson looks on, disapprovingly. I watch the departures board and wait for Olivier.