It's hard to know where to start

First, there's the entire shit show, soap opera, and unbelievable ungovernment taking place in Westminster.  The fact that there's discussion of whether or not Liz Truss's tenure as Prime Minister will last as long as an iceberg lettuce tells you all that you need to know.  I'm standing with Team Lettuce - although I guess that if she stays around long enough for that lettuce to begin wilting, the future of the Tory party will look even bleaker, so that might be something to be wished for.

Then there's the indescribably depressing sign here - the last Christmas tables?  Maybe a marketing ruse, or maybe not - I was walking behind someone today who'd obviously been shopping for lots of large festive baubles.

And then - I was examining a PhD at KCL today - I'd completely wiped from my memory the lifesized waxwork of Virginia Woolf - in a glass case, like Jeremy Bentham at UCL, although he, of course, is more authentic - in the foyer of the (where else) Virginia Woolf Building.  It's spookily realistic.

So all in all, London is a strange place to be ...