4.00 pm

I could be in any park, in any country. The open stretch of lawn is surrounded by trees, their broad leaves providing a welcome canopy of shade. I hear half a dozen languages around me. Italian. French. Indian, I think, and something that might be Russian. I’m not in any park, in some far off and exotic country. I’m in London, in England, sitting in St. James Park with a laptop, a guidebook for London, and a book I bought this morning by an up and coming young novelist.

The reason I am in the park, instead of out in Brighton or Oxford or pub-crawling with my mates from the office is that I’m starting to realize that I am losing myself working at this law firm. One of the others summers told me the other day that I don’t really seem like a Berkeley person. That I don’t really seem like a hippie. I can understand why he would get that idea, of course. I come into the office in a suit most days. Largely because if I don’t wear a jacket, I sit and shiver in the extreme air conditioned refrigerator that is my office. I work mostly with the arbitration and litigation teams, defending corporations facing white collar crime investigations and the big energy and oil companies investing in foreign countries.

There was an incident at the office yesterday involving a very, very unhappy woman who had worked there about five years ago. It was clear that she was rather upset, and while I won’t presume to know what was going on with her, I’m fairly sure that it wasn’t just working at the office that had gotten her so ticked off. Still, it’s things like that which make you question your own choices. Will I end up that miserable in five years? I certainly hope not.

4.10 pm

Rather depressing thoughts for what is, on the whole, a glorious Saturday afternoon. I think I shall go find an ice cream stand and see if I can get through the whole thing without dripping on myself. I fear the chances of that actually happening are rather slim, though.

6.29 pm

Went on for a walk in the park. Saw a girl in a gold-coloured polyester princess dress and a tiara, which made me smile. And a creep who tried to hit on me, which didn’t. Then I ambled over to Hyde park, where I caught the opening bit of what I think was the Neil Young concert before the sky began to make threatening rumbles.

I made it to the Tube station before the rain and found myself in a sweaty mass of over-stimulated tourists. Transferred to another line immediately. Reached St. Paul’s as the sky really began to open. Big, fat drops of rain that left splotches the size of quarters on the pavement. Am now sitting in my living room with the windows wide open, letting the fresh rain scent blow in.

7.46 pm

And, I should add, a hauntingly beautiful tribute to Michael Jackson in black sharpie on a wall of the National Gallery.