Last night I travelled to Canary Wharf, a weirdy business district of London. A friend of mine who’s got a weirdy business job I don’t quite understand, lives there and was celebrating his birthday with football and take away, as you would if you’re a straight man.
Canary Wharf was looking strangely beautiful, with its shiny skyscrapers glittering in the evening sun. It’s breathing business, with stock prices running on the walls of the buildings and a dozen clocks reminding you that time is money. This is where the American Psycho lives. The devil wears Prada.
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