A feature of commuting in London is the array of free papers and magazines, dished out by poor buggers in branded windbreakers. The Evening Standard bloke outside the side stairs to Charing Cross choosing his moment carefully then belting out like it's Armageddon: Final! (is that what he shouts? Is he still there? It's been a while since I've been that way). Styleeeest, Styleeeest! Sport! Sport! Short Leest! Short Leest! Cityaaeeeeem, cityaeeeeem, and the one auntie outside Cannon Street in the morning 'China Daily, China Daily?'. Offers mostly declined by the passing throngs, not always politely, and if not ignored entirely. It must be a bit of a soul-destroying job.
The other morning I walked past one dude outside Bank station dishing out City AMs, and he wasn't even bothering, just kind of moaning. Nggyaaaa, wweeeeeee, hnnnggghnngggg. Hhhhhhrrrr. I don't think he was joking. I think he just didn't care. Or he was nuts. Anyway.