Working ten hours a day, encountering people from every layer of society, every gender, every age — I collected data not in numbers, but in instinct.

Outside the glass curtain wall, the sky flushed red.
At five p.m., Big Ben turned pale gold on cue. Tourists laughed on the bridge, drifting toward the SW1 buildings.

When the lights shut off and the crowds dissolved, I stood downstairs breathing in the sharp air of early spring. My mind cleared.

I never enjoyed post-work socialising.
The clinking glasses.
The rehearsed success stories.
The metrics of attention...

I shut the backend immediately.

At night, I stood by the river watching Tate Modern — its century-old walls and passing travellers.

At six in the morning, police cars arrived with the sunrise.
The officers were tall, unexpectedly gentle. Serious voices. Warm manners. They asked where I was from. Shared five minutes of sandwiches and convenience-store American coffee by the river. No sugar for me.

They returned to duty.
I went home to set up the camera.

Sometimes they recommended burger places — generous portions, thirty pounds well spent. Carrying the tray felt like entering a land of giants. There was comfort in knowing they were fed for long shifts.

Stripped of elite anxieties — organic ingredients, refined palates, sculpted bodies — what remained was daily life. The quiet labour of protecting a city.

This city attracts endless arrivals and departures.
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