There's no real point to this post. Perhaps that's the point.
I was sitting in a fake Irish bar, in a concrete hotel in Bloomsbury. The clientele was...interesting, and probably didn't support the image the hotel wants to promote. They didn't have any real beer so I was drinking a Stella Artois, served in one of those ridiculous goblets. I was reading William Gibson's 'Pattern Recognition' and appropriately the jukebox was playing The Who - first 'Won't Get Fooled Again', then 'I Can't Explain'. I found it increasingly difficult to feel where the book ended and reality began.
That's all.
