It’s dirty autumn in Hyde Park. And I emphasise Hyde Park since to say London wouldn’t be enough. No matter what time of the year you would visit – spring, winter or summer – London is dirty anyway. Yet, I had some hope about Hyde Park. Perhaps it’s more beautiful in spring?

Good evening, sir, how are you doing today?

I pronounce the words almost automatically, without even thinking about their meaning. Talking truly, I would rather say: “It’s dirty here, in London. Don’t you think?” but it’s neither the right time, nor the right place for those words to be pronounced.

Bartending teaches you to smile so much that you start believing being truly happy.

Nice smile will score you a good tip!

My colleague whispers in my ear as if revealing a secret that’s been unveiled for the first time in the history of human existence; and the smile on his face appears together with those words. And I only start wondering: is it a sincere one?

Excuse me, would you mind if I have a cigarette?

A woman that sits next to me interrupts my train of thoughts. It’s hard to believe she really cares much about bothering me by smoking a cigarette when I am holding a pack of Marlboro’s in my hand. Though, it’s a way to start a conversation. She says – she’s known some Lithuanians a few years ago; she says – the park we’re at was originally meant for hunting; she says… she tells so many stories that my heart feels warm again and I’m carried away to that world of illusion. And the autumnal Hyde Park becomes much cozier when I start seeing it through her eyes.

And for a moment I just feel like crying. Talking truly, I often have no clue where is the urge coming from. Not that there is any reason for it. Just some kind of joy exploding inside me all of a sudden makes me slobbery sentimental.

It’s forbidden to be sentimental, miss

Neither the right time, nor the right place. This reminder pops up in my head whenever I get teary. Failure to obey would result in lost battle. So I try to behave. Not that it always works. I mean – can one possibly stop one’s heart beating?

Excuse me, could you tell me where ees Veectoria station?

The all too familiar accent wakes me up from day-dreaming. This time I find myself helping an Italian tourist to handle London tube station routes. And so it goes on: people keep coming and going – at the station, at work, on the streets. Every one of them carrying a story that is so unique and for that moment – so moving, and yet in the long run – forgotten. And I have no choice but to start loving the sense of absurdity that keeps mocking me everywhere I go.