as I roll over to visit Riverman. There’s no softness, classic grace or aesthetic stealth with the public architecture in this town, even the paint they’ve selected will soon fade to sombre Vickers Gun green, peeping from its topcoat swirl of tags and symbols to arrive in coming months. And no lights. Here some sour shuffler might lurk hidden to coincide with my journey home from the motor yacht, accosting and hurling me into the path of a Chilterns rumbler to Marylebone. The Bicester shoppers recoil from the sight, scrunching toes in their Gucci slip-ons while my hot claret is Pollock-flicked along the carriage windows. All for the absence of some subtle uplighters. Who designed this span? Have they already brought in the AI, brute calculus that never looks past load-bearing stats and trapezoid angles – while fleshy organics pad alone towards the meadow, pondering lost arts, stone grandeur and slender wood.
