The Streets of London

Ever felt cheated? It happens to me about once a year at least, when we return from Berlin to our humble home. Yes humble, as in hovel. I beetle to the corner shop for supplies with the words of Johnny Rotten running through my head and a very nasty taste in my mouth. We know our place, the English, and it's bumping into each other and avoiding the piss in the lift. And it is in those first vibrant and depressing few hours of return that you realise that England is still feudal, that nothing has changed here for hundreds of years; nobody has attempted to make anything better or fairer; there's been no attempt at respect, self or otherwise, for there has been no idealism here that wasn't derailed just as quickly as it started.
The serfs scuttle about, between hidey-holes and back alleys; the Etonians sit and gloat in their piles. They don't have to worry, our heroes are barrow boys and shop girls, Del Boys and Thatchers, our history just trade, boys made good with Empire; a little bit of business here, a little there; selling England by the pound. AND we doff our caps to them, even vote for them. It's pathetic.
For the architect, the great city of London is a contradiction in terms, nothing here has been done for anything less than money. Generosity to the human spirit a laughing matter; 'Always look on the bright side of life!' Ha fucking Ha. I even thought of a new title for my book; 'This is Not Civilisation'.
So I'm going to make a small model of a decent house, imagine it somewhere, like Pliny, but with modern, modest, principles in mind. I'll put my dreams in that.