Walking to work the other day, I cut down Bolsover Street rather than hiking down the (larger) Great Portland Street and noticed some cops standing outside a row of flats and some flowers on the ground. Turns out a 23-year-old socialite was found dead there under a pile of rubble with neck injuries. That's two blocks from my office building. I pass the place every day, or at least every other day when I don't take the main road.
London's funny because you can't take anything for granted: the great neighborhood where you work experiences a brutal murder. A building you pass every day conceals secrets behind its anonymity. True these things are possible anywhere, but here it seems like the volume gets turned up a little bit. Most of the time you lose yourself in the crush, but when something happens to break that illusion it's far more jarring.
For laughs, read some of the comments on the Daily Mail's piece about a suspect in her murder, who fled to Yemen.
Also, since everyone is doing it, here's my theory: erotic asphyxiation. You heard it here first, folks.
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