You Better Watch Out for the Skin Deep

I sit on a bench facing the Thames, searching for a word to describe the water's colour. There's the sky's blue of course, faint as if from a desert mountain seen from afar, but also the light brown reflected from the old walls that keep the river from drenching London. These two colours alternate in the water's ondulation, only occasionally broken by speed boats. I'm reminded of the sea in how violent the waves suddenly become in one of these aftermaths. But there's no scent of brine, just that faint London whiff which doesn't really smell of anything once you have lived here long enough.

When I arrived at this bench, a shave-headed butch girl was sitting in the middle of it, one foot nearly tucked underneath her ass. Her whole body language spoke of bench ownership, regardless of the hundreds of people walking up and down the South Bank, regardless of the other fully occupied benches, regardless of anyone who might need a little break. This attitude, like a red flag to a bull, challenges me to join her. She slides to the other end of the bench, surprised. A minute later, she's up and off, clearly pissed off.

I don't have the bench to myself for long. Four eastern european girls and a baby buggy join me; the little one needs a feed. The girls are barely out of their teens; they wear miniskirts that tease the men on nearby benches with their fluttering dance as they lean over the railings and gossip over the river's spray. Girls that don't wish to hide very much, and who speak loudly to each other, to the baby too. They leave me abruptly, back in the flow of people heading towards the Tate Modern.

Now a young office worker joins me on the bench. He's got a sandwich and a complete lack of presence. My attention drifts back to the waves, where I spot a football bobbing along, not too far from a soft drink bottle. Behind me, a busker in a tight blue polo shirt and red bell bottoms has set up shop and sings the first lines of a song I've heard before... but I can't put my finger on it. Neil Young? Bob Dylan? I'm searching for the song's name when a guy I know from the National Theatre crosses my field of vision. He's hunched over, smoking a cigarette, looking in my direction from behind large sunglasses. I bite my lips and look elsewhere just as he gives me a double-take and walks away. If he had stopped to speak to me, he'd have spoiled my day.

Five people performed Tai Chi this morning in the park outside St John's church. They held invisible suns in their hands.