I’m on the tube, approaching Tottenham Court Road. It’s around 3:45pm, I skivved off work, so it is nice to be commuting with the touristas instead of the rat racers. I manage to overhear this conversation above the mettalic rumbling that is the Northern Line.
A young American man with a Texan accent drawls “So where’s all the good stuff, ya know, Buck-en-ham Palace, Big Ben?”
His female companion replies, smug as kittens, “Oh yeah, that’s in Picadilly Square”.