We've just spent a couple of days up the Smoke, which is London for those whose David is not quite the deed (Cockney rhyming slang: David Hockney = Cockney, Deed = Speed, do try to keep up) and while it was a great trip in that it achieved its purpose, it was a bit depressing nonetheless.

As to achieving the purpose, four visits to major art venues, in my case, the Trouble went to more (Trouble, you ask? Oh come on, you really must keep up ... make an effort) two excellent shows (Tanguera and La Bete) and a few very good meals (yes, you can eat well in England, if you put in the research) and some relevant shopping hit the target, which is what we went North for.

So why the depressing thing, then, I hear you ask? Well, on the first morning we were there, I plugged myself into the radio while strolling around Tottenham Court Road looking at the things that go beep and flash little lights, in order to cross the road safely and go into shops to look at more things that go beep and flash little lights, and they were talking about the Bank of England making it pretty darn clear that a second round of recession, the dreaded double-dip, was on the cards.

Now I'm no economic genius, but even I can grasp that double-dipping, unless performed as a prelude to constructing an ice-cream cone, is not necessarily a brilliant thing, and even more so when the dip is into another recession so hot on the heels of the first one.

Actually, I haven't been entirely clear that the first recession was over, since milk and honey haven't exactly been flowing out of every tap. I thought this was something to do with the Camercleggian Government wanting to make sure that everyone knew that it was New Labour's fault that the country had got itself into such a fine mess, but apparently, it's worse than that - the situation really is dire.

And London on Wednesday morning last was quite a good illustration of the awfulness of the situation, if the talk-radio station I was on was to be believed. Leaving aside the usual media freneticism that turns everything into a crisis for fifteen minutes (Warhol must have been talking about crises not people) until the next great big issue comes along, like a tartlet having her hair chopped off, what I was hearing was that while unemployment seems to have eased around the country, in London it hadn't and since - understandably - London is something of a bellwether, this was taken by the commentariat as a portent of doom, with quite a bit of gloom thrown in, for bad measure.

From the micro-perspective of where I was strolling, the picture wasn't much prettier. I don't know if you've ever been on expedition up and down Tottenham Court Road, from the relatively smart end down by Centre Point up to the perceptibly seedier end towards the Euston Road but the seediness seemed to increase at a sharper gradient this time. Added into the mix was the clearly underwhelming pressure the sales people were experiencing, with many of them lounging behind their counters with nothing much to do, and the sense of business slow-down was palpable.

This is not to say that tumbleweed was blowing down the middle of the road or that the theatres or restaurants weren't busy, but there wasn't the sense of vibrancy that usually imposes itself on me in London. Even the Tube wasn't doing its usual imitation of a rat-run overflowing with people on their way to doing their Masters of the Universe thing in the City - it was overflowing with flipping tourists and their back-packs and pack of brats, obstructing the clearways for people like me, but that's to be expected in the middle of August. Riding the Tube was something I hadn't done for some time, and with the help of good headphones and a Nano, it is bearable, so perhaps the Masters of the Universe don't descend to the depths any more, which is why I wasn't spotting them.

On the other hand, perhaps the bastards who got us into this economic mess in the first place are embarrassed to be seen in the sunlight, so they weren't out and about.

To add to the depressing financial news, the Bank of England boss also made some cracks about how expensive fuel and electricity was going to be next year - the ennui that this provoked was exacerbated by the thought that if this were to have been said three hours back in my space-time continuum (that is, in Malta) the Opposition would be leaping to their hind legs squealing and yelling how this was all the fault of GonziPN and how the PM should resign and so on and so forth. To be honest, I'm not sure if the Opposition over here did the same thing (not blaming Gonzi, of course, though I'm pretty sure maltastar.com probably reported it as such) but what with going in and out of the shops and the museums and the theatres and the galleries, I wasn't actually listening to the radio all the time and it doesn't pick up down the Tube.

As always, the second day of the trip saw me much less depressed (not that I was much in the first place) because I'd got a decent night's sleep. Schlepping to the airport at the crack of dawn to catch the early flight is always a sure-fire way to get me feeling ratty, and although Air Malta's excellent staff always do their best to ease me into the day, it's taking longer to adjust to sleeplessness: must be something to do with my venerable age.

While we were in London, the sad news came in that Prof. de Marco had died, just days after being released from Mater Dei.

I need hardly add any words of praise, such was the outpouring when the news broke, suffice it to say that this was a pretty extraordinary politician and a supremely gifted lawyer.

He had tried, poor man, to teach me Criminal Law but we remained friends and became colleagues for all that. My condolences to his family, of course.