It’s warming up.
A sunny day.
I sit and beg on Villiers street, that street that goes from Charing X down to Embankment.
It’s too hot in my O Neill jacket – a lovely April morning – so I take it off and use it as a cushion for people to throw money on.
Everyone’s wearing those silver capes marathon runners wear after they finish the race.
Quite a lot of people are wearing pink.
Spare any change, I say occasionally.
I learned that from the other beggars.
It’s not real.
It’s like I’m acting a part.
All my life has been like acting a part.
Now I’m acting the part of a beggar.
A homeless James Bond beggar.
Nobody knows I’m James Bond, tho.
They just think I’m another homeless beggar.
But really I’m 007.
Sometimes I think everyone in London is in on the live cinema reality shoot.
But then other times I think only the homeless know I’m James Bond.
But then sometimes I think I’m the only one who knows – well, obviously me and the director Francis Ford Coppola.
Otherwise known as Mr. Fox.