A sunny saturday in London. In January. Temperature hovers just above zero, but the humid air makes me shiver more than -30C in Lapland last year. Nevertheless, the locals cycle around me in shorts and light summer jerseys, I’ve even seen a couple of guys in flip-flops. Must have been New Zealanders, they seem to have a mental block with proper shoes. However cold it is outside, the light is perfect – an unusual event in this town indeed – for getting my arse out of bed and wander off to town with my camera.
Now, this is easier said than done, because the whole world seems to think that gather on Trafalgar square (or any other square, depends which part of the world one happens to live) and rally against Trump is a brilliant idea. Now, I do not like him myself. And I, too, pity the Americans for shooting themselves in their own feet. But ultimately, Trump’s election is a result of perfectly democratic process. What on earth is there to contest? Let the Americans protest in the USA, which is fair enough. But what exactly is the purpose of anti-Trump marches anywhere else in the world? Don’t you have your own issues that you could go in the streets for, if you really must? Like lack of any kind of plan of how to deal with Brexit. Or the latest coup d’etat in any african country. Or Putin wiping his arse with the russian constitution in order to hold onto power probably until the day he dies (if you really are so concerned with electoral results in other countries). Or Maduro making the venezuelan army responsible for distribution of food to the starved population. How transparent it that going to be, what do you think? Or that despite the fact that female genital mutilation is a crime in the UK since mid-1980s, London hospitals have treated almost 5000 cases in the last ten years, yet there has not been one single successful prosecution? Now, british women against Trump, this is, in my humble opinion, an issue you should find somewhat more pressing than an idiot winning democratic elections in a sovereign country. He’s not the first one, he will not be the last. Chill out. (That happens to be a mental note to myself, too. Chill out, Kat. Enough ranting. Have a glass of something and calm down).
However, I wrapped up warmly and set off for Canary Wharf. It’s photogenic enough and bound to be deserted during weekend. I felt good, for a change. I know in my line of work, I need to be pleasant and funny more or less non-stop, but there are two huge giveaways of how I actually feel. How much I weight and what’s on my iPod. So when you see me thinner than usual, you shouldn’t be screaming in fake ecstasy “oh darling, you look so well”, but rather be asking “you lost weight, what’s wrong?” – because if I’m losing weight, something is bound to be very wrong. More importantly, the playlist. I ditched Carla Bruni (yes, I do confess that when I really feel like having a full-immersion in my mental shit, Carla Bruni’s songs miraculously materialize on my iPod; I am very ashamed of it, but it seems to work every time. It’s the perfect coup de grâce – follow the link at your own peril. Therefore, George Harrison it was. I mean, what’s more fitting? “Here comes the sun” and “Beware of darkness” and “All things must pass”, of course, and ultimately the one that gives the name of this whole rant, “That’s the way it goes“. I will not go on about what the song means, as it is linear enough, but it is a perfect match for a series of photos from Canary Wharf. And because I am a natural-born cynic, I cannot spare you the following remark. While I do believe (hope) that there is much more to life than counting days left to friday week after week, I also imagine that preaching about futility of living in the material world comes somewhat easier when one is a former Beatle. Well, anyway, I am not losing weight, and I am not listening to depressing french music. From small things, ladies and gentlemen, big things one day come.