I saw a dead fox last night.
Pink, plastic beercan binders were wraped around it's throat, from afar it looked like xmas ribbon. Up close it's eyes were bulged, still wet blood pooled around it's muzzle, it must've died within the hour of me finding it.
It was on it's side in the bus stop gutter and as the busses pulled up (there were two 141's before mine came) i waited in morbid anticipation for them to run over it, picturing the carcass popping under the tonnage of a rolling double decker, none of them did. As i left on the trundling 341 something truly lonely fell apon me as i thought of how i felt i should've done something. To me, it was as lonely a death as an old lady dead in an armchair on the 23rd floor of a council block, and just as much a metaphor for london.