A tree blossoms pink in this mild December, on a street in Southwark, lined with victorian townhouses, converted into flats.
December’s a strange time for blossom.
Among the milling throngs of Oxford Street, fake snow brushed my cheek, disseminated from above the entrance of the flagship Topshop. A woman who passed looked up at its source, her face illuminated in passive delight.
December’s the right time for fake snow, I guess.