London. Just one of those things...

Being without any one corner of the Globe I can truly call home, I've felt as much like an ex-pat Londoner as anything for a good while; but I agree with other ex-pats that there can be no going back. And almost every day there is more news confirming this in reality;  now the shops and pubs of Soho are following the dusty bookshops, for generations the major attraction of Charing Cross Road, into oblivion.

Mulligans (oxyman)

And nearby, the internationally acknowledged wellspring of new art, Cork Street, has also fallen to the demands of commerce in a city that is a victim of its own success. It was a good party. Even if you couldn't get in. (There may well be other parties; I remember grumbles that Portobello Road wasn't what it used to be - the grumbles in 1968 -) Those tiny but densely packed streets north of Shaftsbury Avenue and Piccadilly that bred Trad Jazz/ the Blues Boom, TW3, Private Eye, a particular fame for Francis Bacon, the Two Roberts and other artists (and writers), are unfortunately bang in the middle of some of the most highly-rated estate in the world. So despite petitions and letters, and submissions from experts and interested parties, planning permission has been given to replace several key gallery-style spaces in Cork Street with shops which will be ideal for displaying designer handbags and whose inhabitants might be able to afford the new rents; but being purveyors of expensive tat, the new faces are hardly likely to  keep that indefinable sum-of-the-parts alive. The picture here is not of any of the galleries, which with the bookshops were the tourist money-spinner and a regular joy for natives, but Mulligans, the Cork Street pub - which is no longer in business - in case you were wondering.

Pong of the day

 "petrichor': the smell accompanying the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather. 

tiny jungle (Mabozza)

See also http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Petrichor

and 

http://www.wordsmith.org/words/petrichor.html

My regular correspondent, a fellow Glaswegian ex-pat, known professionally as Mabozza, found the name for my remembered experience of being small and close to the ground in the days when roadside dust would have contained very little in the way of car exhaust waste, diesel or petrol.
As I remember: "When we grow up, way from the ground, we don't get the smells so much if ever. My favourite was the first summer shower releasing molecules of olfactory stuff from the pavement dust, mostly powdered leaf and earth with a hint of flowers, brambles and dead insects."