I’ll call back later paymentrx.com In the far distance we escried what we used to call the Post Office Tower, when its top-floor revolving restaurant was the apex of chic. In the foreground, a mixture of Georgian elegance, haughty City skyscrapers, dull concrete tower blocks and pretty much everything else lay ranged below us. London has been a bawdy old whore since Roman times, hitching up her skirts and accommodating anyone with the requisite readies (the Shard is jointly owned by the state of Qatar). But Jesus was famously tolerant of the working girls of Judaea, and any rebuke offered by the breastly dome of St Paul’s to the Gherkin and the other dwarfing manifestations of Mammon that surround it seemed a suitably gentle one. “Wow,” said my friend, a wordsmith of unusual eloquence, once he had penetrated the phalanx of earpiece-wearing, clipboard-wielding young women who guard access to all lifts and staircases like minor functionaries of a Bond villain.
