Travelling through last weekend all the poster boards had been stripped back, unintentionally making a Pollock-Braque mash-up of torn colours.  Accidental bricolage. Shabby, but then that suits the creaking system, and much nicer than being advertised at.

Unsure of the route of the march we stood in the station entrance, staring at the local map, trying to decide which way to go, until we realised we just had to follow the yelling and whistling, which arrived conveniently just outside at that moment. A female black cab driver beeped her horn enthusiatically, and rude gestures from people on buses were rebuffed with such vigour the man in question quailed. I hope he soiled himself. I am Diva, hear the PVC squeak.

Sadly, in our enthusiasm to get on with the demonstrating, we forgot to collect the station on camera, so on Monday on the final leg of our jaunt G and I went back up the Northern Line hoping to walk from Goodge Street to the British Museum for a spot of culture.


( the gaggle of British Museum back room boys standing outside having a fag did not bode well )