The nation’s thyroid gland

I’ve fancied New York for as long as I can remember. Not in a sexual way, more an aspirational one. This time next week I’ll wake up in the Big Smoke. It’s going to be five degrees. This is good, as it means the pavements will be steaming.

I’m going for a roast beef sandwich with pickles.
I’m going for a jog through Central Park, and whilst crossing a bridge I’ll make eye contact with a small blonde jogger. She’ll be wearing a grey tracksuit with pink trim, one of those hair-band things, and headphones. We’ll jog on the spot and chat to each other.
I’m going for a yellow taxi with a sweaty Hispanic driver.
I’m going for a red and white diner at four in the morning with flickering neon lights and weak coffee.
I’m going for a bum to shout abuse at me on the sidewalk.
I’m going for a beer on somebody’s steep front steps and walk-don’t walk.
I’m going for spaghetti with meatballs and taking cover in a cinema showing an old movie and a black cop with a big fat ass directing the traffic.

A million photos, no doubt, to follow.