Bricks and Party-Poppers

Club Dreadnought, underneath the old railway arches, near to London Bridge: The final night before it crumbles, in bricked-up tunnels, where the trains used to go. Smatterings of black clothing cling to the crowd, who linger underneath the curved ceilings, sipping drinks by the dank dance floor. They cannot hear each other above the music; they may as well be talking in whispers, but they smile at each other, scowl at the prices at the bar and search for people they know anyway.
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Saturday night, in London, and it's erming and melston's birthday celebration in a pub, but I've run out of time and leave soon after I get there.
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Saturday night, in Cambridge, and it's robinbloke's birthday party, and I drink cider out of a used-up party-popper and wonder what dragons taste like.
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In London again, it's Sunday, and wintrmute and I photograph statues repeatedly, with different exposures, and then it gets too cold and we wander through parks, gazing back at the sunset.