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buskers

One thing I really like about London is that it is full of buskers. I love buskers. If I could do anything in the world – astronaut, president, person-with-measuring-tape-in-lingerie-shop – I’d be a busker. I’d travel around from place to place with a guitar or a ukele, or maybe the full Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins outfit, and I’d sing and dance and make people smile and laugh. At the end of the day I’d pick up my hat and my coins and go find a warm meal and a place to sleep.
And the next day I’d get up and maybe stay for a bit or maybe move on to some place else, depending how I felt that morning. I’d have connections everywhere, but never ties. I’d be always moving – an English Bruce Banner, without the anger issues.  
But I have no voice you want to hear and no musical talent. And so I just love buskers. They are magic. They do a thing I love but could never do. If you pass one don’t be mean. Slow down, listen for a bit – and for goodness sake give them some dough.

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