All the nobody notices is another bridge under reconstruction; so many of them are in decay of some kind that it takes away from the beauty of their passing. It detracts from the poignancy of their deaths.

The first time he notices the location on the Millennium Bridge is the moment he ambles past lamppost seven. There are so many people crossing the river from either side but it never enters his mind that this will not work.

Nothing will enter that can send him off course.

The only way to stop himself is to truly give up.

He’s no quitter.

No white flag here.

At lamppost six he takes the time to stop and watch two boats cross paths: the Cyclone Clipper and Moon Clipper. They are identical apart from their first names.

The policeman is just ahead, he hasn’t seen him yet. The carefree kids with no responsibility other than to have fun and enjoy learning are still putting on their plimsoles before jogging past.

A woman swoops by at the fourth post, overtaking his leisurely amble along the waterfront. She swings one of those hessian shopping bags that supermarkets are encouraging everyone to use now. Bags for life. And they make you feel guilty if you ever forget it and have to ask for a regular plastic carrier bag, like you are the only reason the world is so polluted, you personally contribute the greatest percentage to landfill sites.

Her bag has a picture of a giant poppy on one side so he knows that she has had it since November, maybe a little earlier. There always seems to be some theme to these life bags. Whether Easter or Christmas or an annual charity telethon that the supermarket supports.

Previously, at the second lamppost next to the river, just before the poppy power-walks past Nobody, many paces earlier than his admiration for river vehicles, prior to lifting his head to the view of the place he will drop, crack, engorge, and ahead of the overly joyful adolescents and lethargic officer of the law, his attention is grabbed by a woman.

Her hair is blonde but not naturally, and neither her lips nor her breasts can boast that fact either. She wears pink. Bubblegum pink. A tracksuit of bubblegum to match her bubblegum bike, bubblegum phone and bubblegum nails. She is not riding the bike, just pushing it as she talks on her phone.

He looks around to see whether anyone else can see this vision of synthetic anti-beauty but nobody seems bothered, perhaps it is mirage. Maybe his eyes are playing tricks on him. He looks over his shoulder but everyone seems to be facing in the opposite direction apart from the smudge of a woman in black swinging a bag in time with her legs, which has a giant poppy painted on its surface.