Ringing practise.

Something about bells over London. Walking along Borough High Street, tired to my bones with head aching and eyes itching on an unforgiving grizzly February evening, I suddenly heard the Southwark bells tumbling out over the sound of traffic and trains. They cut through the garish colours and lights and battered at concrete and the dented steel. They brightened dingy puddles in the patched pavements. They reminded me how much more there is to this existence than the humdrum and everyday grind of vehicles and mundanity. A glittering flash of sound among the half-blanked hiss reminding me to live for the moment and the experience - not in money or work or past or future or other unconnected people's existences. A life full of oil drops on fishing line. A necklace of memories. Glittering like beads. Each one as close to the last as before, so that the whole thing is dense with life. This is the aim of being alive.