1981
I'm told there are those whose lives exceed their expectations. Is this really true? For me, imagining and anticipation are always the high point of any experience. So it was here, now. London life had not turned out as I imagined at the age of eighteen.
In my early days here, I used to wander about the city on my days off, looking at the pigeons strutting about on their wine-coloured legs, wondering where they'd flown in from, admiring their sense of ownership. Two years on I seldom go into the centre where the pigeons gather and, if I do, I almost always find myself staring into the river, twelve times the width of the Liffey, but the same murky colour. The same as all city rivers, carrying so many centuries of human debris that they become unable to reflect the sky.
My home in L
