I was filming on Oxford Street for a story I was doing on Black Friday. It was cold. I was hungry. I was tired. Those feelings mixed themselves into something unrecognisable. I could no longer figure out what it was that was making me so ill tempered. In spite of my foul mood I didn't dare leave. I had interviews to do. I had to contend with the unfriendliness of London face first. It was as it had always been: me against the world; me against the city; me against me.
It is wise to know when you've done enough, but it is wiser to know when you cannot do anymore. I have never been wise. I planned to stand there until my task was done, even if it meant that my candle was only a puddle of wax at the end of it.
A man sat down on the pavement's edge. He pulled out a bucket, a tin lid, and some other half broken things. He removed drum sticks from his pocket, and drummed.
I have always been fascinated by buskers. Where I'm from public displays of talent are not so common. I stopped. I listened. I filmed. I knew then that I couldn't do any more. I had done my best to report on black Friday. I hoped that it would be enough and even if it wasn't, I'd return to fight the world some other day.
It is remarkable how music even when unaccompanied by words has meaning.
Happy Days, Afam