THIS is why I left London.
The fucking tourists.
It was the tourists. Always, always the bloody tourists.
Having to slow down or stop so that they could take photographs of each other at red 'phone boxes, by guardsmen in boxes by gates, by Downing Street, in Oxford Street, near Hyde Park, near buses, in buses, by bus stops, watching them hold up traffic as they stood in the middle of a busy street trying to get the perfect picture of themselves in the middle of a street, trying to negotiate around a gang of between 10 and 20 of them in matching cagoules and rucksacks blocking the pavements as they gather round a map none of them can read - you name it, I got sick of it.
Yes. I live on a building site in a red light district in one of the smallest and financially busted cities outside London. Yes. Money is tight and and it is grim and miserable here but THERE ARE NO TOURISTS!
I got a brief and fairly garbled voicemail from MwK. He's coming down on Tuesday with the parts of a secondhand kitchen he and one of Dad's mates had stripped out of someone's house.
It's good enough to refit somewhere else (like my place) and it's from IKEA so I should be able to add units if necessary.
Great. Not can he come down, but he will be coming down.
It's not like I had plans or nothing.
I'm skint, I've got to provide fry-up food for Dad and MwKs and Tuesday's plan is now rubbish.
This kitchen had better be good.