Perfect evening

London turns into a big party every Friday night, but especially tonight. The sky is cloudless, the sun bright, the air soft and warm, cleaned by a week of rain. Those who had gone into work bundled against a gray chill somehow change during the day, as the streets jostle with people in shorts and sleeveless blouses. A lot of them smile.

Green Park is full. There's a fountain there consisting of a pair of triangular pieces, the water coursing down one face of each. I've never seen it on. Today there are kids splashing in it. Every one of the folding green chairs is occupied. The guy who goes around collecting the money must be busy!

People are walking a bit slower than normal. Three guys who came chattering out of a store cross against a light. The taxis don't run them down. One of them honks, but it is the only discordant sound around.

I see three Ferraris as I walk up Bond Street. The drivers all look about the same - in their 30s or 40s, fashionable t-shirts and close cropped beards, sunglasses, too cool to smile. Maybe when you have a Ferrari and the sun comes out and it's Friday afternoon you say to yourself "time to go for a drive down Bond street."

Pretty women everywhere. Cell phones - mobiles - everywhere. One guy is saying "I'll be there in ten minutes!" and I'm sure he's talking to someone at a pub, a friend who is standing on a crowded sidewalk having a pint, like everyone else in the city, and asking when are you going to get here. Another guy walks by laughing and shouting into his phone: "Really! I had the swine flu!" I give him a wide berth.

Even Oxford Street, full of big stores, sidewalks ridiculously crowded (why does anyone ever go here?) can't ruin a great mood.

The store of sacred cheese smells great. I whistle at the window of our apartment.

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