I'm standing at Vauxhall station waiting for a train from Earlsfield. My jacket's still a bit damp from this morning's rain, but now it's sunny and dry. In front of me, planes are appearing out of the sky.
Up they fly, drifting in and out of the clouds. It takes about one minute for each plane to pass above me, then it disappears out of my eye's reach, above the stations roof. As soon as on has passed, another appears in front of me. In between the planes, I hear announcements being made:
"The 10:20 London Waterloo train will be delayed by approximately 32 minutes. This is due to a suspected fatality at Wimbledon. We apologise for any inconvenience caused."
As my own train's arrival time keeps shifting, 10:40, 10:48, 10:50, 11:01, it is only the sweet sounds of Adele that keep me calm, as I calculate how late I will be for my appointment. The train, finally, surprisingly shows up at 10:53 and I arrive 'only' 15 minutes late.
On my way home several hours later, with the melancholic "Someone like you" playing in my ears, the Evening Standard confirms that a woman in her sixties was indeed hit by a train and killed at Wimbledon.
Another day in London has just passed by.