In summer London fills with migratory youth, who fly in in flocks, and get issued brightly coloured matching backpacks to identify them from the grey masses. They trail from cathedral to art gallery in an almost uniform pattern. The eager and the first fledgers up front, photographing and not being left behind, the jaded and cool tagging and lagging behind in little bubbles of contraband indifference.
And always the back packs full of little plastic telephone boxes, and Kendal mint cake, and seriously you don't want to know.
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