Not three feet from where I stood at the balustrade outside the National Gallery a sparrow hawk eyed me and then turned back to busy itself with its claws and whatever plans it had for decimating the pigeon and sparrow populations of Trafalgar Square. Judging by the dearth of either bird, the hawks. (apparently introduced for the purpose of depopulating the avian folk of the neighborhood) are doing a good job. For it's not often one got across Trafalgar Square without being shat upon by a pigeon or three.
It would, I suppose, be unhealthy to wish that something similar might be done with the tourists that seem to clot together in impassible clumps, be it in London, Rome, Milan or Venice.
With a similar lack of goodwill to my fellow
man drag queen I whined all the way to the continuation of a birthday event (ex-student, just turning thirty) last weekend. Not my first choice, a drag bar, but the Friend of Dorothy Draper vibe caught my attention as I sat at the twenty-foot-long cloth-clad table and immediately broke a champagne glass flirting with the biggest rack I've seen since "Chesty" Morgan during the 1970s.
I don't know who designed the place but I like it. My problem now will be to avoid becoming one the sad old geezers stuffing bills down cleavage. But, on the bright side, there's no VPL on a drag queen and that says a lot.