London is cold. Not the people, although sometimes. My shochu cocktail sits happily in amongst fried noodles. The Tate, the Tate! We want a bag for the books. Turban Tiger and Chinky Chimp meditate on robbery—all for warmth, of course. They settle for hot drinks and a draughty tent. Costa, my saviour. Mr Erudite says we have three minutes. Mr Thick says we have two, but that we should leave now. In the frigid air, the Costa disappears.
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