To Stick a Fly

There was a troubadour on the steps and I didn't quite know how to deal with it. I was paralyzed with... with what? I stopped under pretence of checking my phone and turned back towards the gardens. Somewhere behind the long term, temporary fencing and overgrown bushes sat John Stuart Mill contemplating just such a dilemna. He had been captured for posterity, apparently sat on a bin. From his body shape he appeared to be just about to rise, perhaps having spotted the paparazzi sculptor, realising that this may not be most dignified way to be preserved.

Maybe it wasn't a bin. Madcap hair and a vacant face gave the impression of an elderly gentleman who has wondered off from a care home. He's been sat for a while, waiting for someone to collect him. He assumes the artist to be a nurse. The artist as a nurse. The artist as a patient. Beyond Mill was a road and a river. None of this was helping resolve my dilemna.

I could have gone around but it was a long way and what then? What would I do next time? I looked up the narrow steps beyond the troubadour. Somewhere over the top were the Royal Courts in all their Disney grandeur.

"Oh barricade the doors and they will never get through.
Did you choose London or did London choose you?
You who stole and drank and lied
Barricade the doors and the windows besides.

Oh barricade the doors and remove your sim.
Wipe away all trace so you can begin
To plan for the future and let go the past.
For you know the past, by nature, won't last."

I imagined Mill listening to this. I suspect he might have puked, raising from the bin:

"Oh I'm sorry, I mean, I didn't mean to. I've done a little sick. On my coat."

"That's okay Mr Mill. We'll get you all cleaned up. You come with me. There you go. Okay there?"

Back to the hand rail I sidestepped past the troubadour, dropping a nugget in his cap.