There are many things to do in London. You can admire centuries-old architecture, wander through history, eat your body weight in pastries, or stare at the River Thames pretending you’re deep and philosophical.
I did all of that.
But what I really fell in love with were the street performers — those glorious magicians of chaos who could sell you an experience you didn’t even know you wanted until you were already holding your wallet and laughing at yourself.
This particular adventure began while Trish was serving as a guest lecturer at King’s College London — which meant I had what married men everywhere recognize as The Hall Pass of Wandering: a full day alone with cameras, curiosity, and absolutely no schedule.
Dangerous combination.
I was strolling along the Thames when I spotted the crowd. You know the one — heads tilted forward, phones raised, the universal sign that something odd is happening.
At the center stood a young street performer with the confidence of a seasoned politician and the enthusiasm of someone who has definitely had too much espresso. He was pitching two women and his mannerisms suggested that this, whatever it was, was going to be good.
Now let me say this: one of those two women was always going to agree. That is simply how the universe works.
And she did.
On the ground lay what looked like a giant noose with a handle — equal parts soap tool and medieval interrogation device. My photographer brain perked up. My inner safety inspector quietly stepped away.
The performer launched into his routine like a Broadway salesman. Big gestures. Big smile. Big promises. Classic expectation management.
“Life changing,” he declared.
That should have been a clue.
He lowered the rope into a bucket, lifted in one smooth motion… and whoosh — she was encapsulated inside a bubble the size of a small studio apartment.
Her friend, naturally, was outside taking photos instead of participating. This is how history gets documented.
I began shooting, waiting for the moment every photographer secretly hopes for: the burst.
Because bubbles, like campaign promises and diet plans, never last.
And then —
POP.
Perfect timing.
The bubble collapsed into a shimmering halo of water suspended in mid-air — a beautiful, impossible ring that looked like a tear in the fabric of space and time. My camera sounded like a machine gun.
I swear for one brief second it looked like a portal.
And that’s when the thought hit me.
What if… and hear me out… the apparatus were slightly modified.
Not much. Just enough. You know, something a sophomore at MIT could handle.
Imagine the performer enthusiastically inviting certain politicians — purely for educational purposes, of course — into the bubble.
Big smiles. Cameras rolling.
Lift… encapsulate… applause…
…and then the bubble pops and they’re simply…
gone.
Not harmed. Just… relocated. Perhaps to a quiet island where they can hold meetings exclusively with each other and no microphones – and no internet.
World peace through soap technology.
I would gladly sponsor the solution mix.
Sadly, physics remains stubbornly ethical, and all that vanished was the water and the laughter. The woman stepped out, everyone cheered, and London carried on being gloriously human.
But ever since that day, every time world events make me wish for simpler times, I think back to that bubble bursting along the Thames and wonder…
Maybe we’re all just one good soap mixture away from a better future.
Wishful thinking.
Some bubbles hold air. Some hold hope. And a few — if you’re lucky — hold just enough mischief to make you laugh at the world again.
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