Dedicated to the denizens of the silicon roundabout

Harriet is dirty, but she's happy because the bus sped her to the Wellcome Collection. A fish-pie smelling, curiously interesting place. 

Her last memory of Shoreditch, before she cracked her nose on the glass wall, was of the roundabout at Old Street station. A flyover thing, a piece of art. There was a moment before the ambulance arrived when she watched a girl with calm, careful eyeliner apply red lipstick calm and carefully without a mirror. 

The modern woman is a genius, Harriet Bardot remembers thinking.