February 18

Under Blackfriars Bridge he sits in his thick skin of duvet and dog, his head bowed, weighed down by a dirty beard. Above him the drawings of how the Victorians built the bridge: great arches like ribs made of brick and stone, still standing.

People pass by, drawn out by the sudden romance of the early evening, the pretty lights of the City winking in the growing gloom; jewels sparkling on an ugly neck of buildings. Only the spire of St Pauls suggests any true beauty.

The people quaff take-away lattés, talk about the view and their lives and other passers-by, unable to avoid little sniggering asides as they compare themselves. All of them ignore the homeless man and his reticent dog. All of them walk past and coo at the blue and white lights hanging in the chestnut trees on the South Bank, the way London looks so pretty this evening.

Not so pretty.