It is a Monet dawn, a ‘London Peculiar’ dulling traffic sounds to the background murmur of a gallery, and cold biting at their toes as they stand on Hungerford Bridge. Stretching high then springing up and out, they execute half pikes and plunge soundlessly into the mist below. Big Ben strikes one, yet the echoes mark noon before the bridge follows the divers below the surface.
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