I've found myself back in London in time to check out some of the films in the annual London Film Festival.

Always a cornucopia of cinema, the trick is to read between the lines of the film reviews in the programme, which are always unstintingly favourable, and work out those films that really do deserve your attention. Once you've done that, you then have to work out whether the films that you want to see are going to reappear again in future on wide release, or whether the film festival is going to possibly be the only occasion to see them, and therefore you are totally justified in paying the slight premium that the film festival tickets go for.

Notable films that I've seen in the last week include:

• The Station Agent
  
• Lost in Translation (Bill Murray at his wistful best)
  
• Wilbur (Wants to Kill Himself)
  
• The Mother
  

I found history in the making passing me overhead on Friday.

Coming out of my printing course, I heard the familiar concorde roar that many Londoners know, especially those that live underneath the flight path and have to pause all verbal communication while it passes by.
No sooner than the first concorde had passed directly overhead, landing gear dangling ready for the descent into Heathrow than the roar of the second concorde started.

In fact the last three BA scheduled concorde services were flying in to Heathrow in procession, each separated by about two minutes. In spite of the fuel-guzzling, loud and envornmentally unfriendly aircraft that it is, many people who have never been able to afford a flight (such as myself) still have a special affection for it. It's a symbol of an acheivement that may not be repeated, something that belongs more to fantasy than reality in many ways, and something that makes you think of things less ordinary.

So, it was wonderful and yet sad to see these three concordes descending together to Heathrow for the final time, and many people were rushing out of pubs and stopping their cars on the side of the road in order to get a final glimpse of the great aircraft.

I've been wandering around the Southbank with a friend for most of the afternoon today, and it really is one of London's under-used asset. I can't count the number of times I've mentioned some of the places on the Southbank to people and just received a blank stare in return, and it's a bit depressing that more people don't realise how cool the place is.

At the moment there's a lot more people than usual making a visit, and this is because of David Blaine's attempt to spend 44 days in a glass box (which he has practically completed, today being the last day). I'm amazed at the attention that this has attracted, and it really does make me wonder why people find it so fascinating.

Would the same people consider lining up outside the visitors entrance of the prison when an inmate goes on a hunger strike? Is this not effectively the same thing? Although I'd personally not like to try to stave myself while sitting in a glass box for 44 days (particularly not while suspended over the heads of a less-than-adoring public), there are many examples where people have been through a similar ordeal in the past, and it is of course a test of endurance, not an illusion.

It could be that this is a public relations exercise by the GLA to get more people to make use of the Southbank, and if so, it has worked stunningly well. And if this is the cause I applaud the end, if not the means.

Reasons to visit the Southbank, in my humble opinion, include the following. You'll notice that the chance to see an American illusionist go without a few hot meals while being gawped at by those with nothing better to do does not feature on this list.

• The Royal Festival Hall, my favourite London landmark
  
• The National Film Theatre
  
• The outdoor book sellers, underneath Waterloo bridge
  
• The bars and ambience of Gabrial's Wharf
  
• The opportunities to cut a few ollies with your skateboard
  
• The London Eye
  
• The Design Museum
  
• The pubs that offer good beer and food, with a view across the Thames
  
• The Tate Modern
  
• The new GLA headquarters
  
• The chance to walk across the new Hungerford bridges, not to mention the Millenium Bridge
  
• The chance to look back across the river and thumb your nose at the West End, while admiring the lights strung through the trees on the far bank.
  
• The opportunity to stroll along the riverside, somehow feeling that you are in Europe and not just the UK.
  

When I was in Barcelona I was surprised to find some "banksys" stencilled onto some of the walls in the Barrio Gotico.

Banksy is the nom-de-plume of a London graffiti art terrorist (terrorist in the good sense), whose stencilled are provocative and humorous, and typically very nicely subversive. He's certainly been getting a lot of attention, and as well as being very creative, seems to be pretty busy given the number of images appearing around London (and, as I found, Barcelona - I wonder which other parts of Europe sport his spray-painted works?).

The Guardian has some background and images, while elsewhere there is a series of more extensive Banksy images.

There's a lot of anti-establishment humour in the images, and the style tends to be distinctive and recognisable. Given the level of recognition that he's acheived, I think it's impossible for him to remain uncoopted - the image on the new Blur album is his, and although publicly anonymous up to now, I'd guess this won't continue forever.

You know those flyers that get thrust at you as you walk down the street?
Chances are that they are for an indie-goth-trance-ibiza club night, or a new branch of a trendy new coffee chain, but not always.

I was wandering past the National Gallery this afternoon, and an old white-haired guy waved a flyer my way. Given that he didn't look the right age to be promoting either an indie-goth-trance-ibiza club night or a new branch of a trendy new coffee chain, I took it and read it as I walked on. Rather than describe it's contents, it's easier if I reproduce them below, and let you see why it made me quite happily bemused:

"The painting you may have seen, Madonna and Child, reputedly by Raphael and owned by the Duke of Northumberland who wants to sell it for a large sum to the Getty Trust, banker and money launderer to the Anglo-American establishment, is acutally painted by me. The Duke is my brother and has effectively stolen the painting from me, and in passing it off as by Raphael he is also passing himself off as an impoversihed aristocrat, when in fact he is one of the richest people in the country and he and his cronies want to rule the world. As to how he thinks selling the Madonna will help him is another matter, but why else should he be selling this painting if it is not for some political purpose?
Whether or not you contribute my borther gets the money, but if you do contribute the painting is more likely to stay in the country and I am more likely to recover either my intellectual property or the money."

I'm still not sure what to make of this, but it's truely multi-faceted in it's weirdness, don't you think?
There seems to be one of two dubious points in there (I mean, everyone knows that it is Tony Blair and George Bush who are really running the world), and maybe a smidgeon of paranoia, but whatever it's certain that this guy must have a great and entertaining story to tell. Or, given that he was standing outside the National Gallery, maybe it's an example of performance art?

Today has been an absolute pearler weatherwise, that combination of a brazen blue sky and settled weather with the chestnut and plane trees dressed in their amber coloured cloaks.

For some reason, although it's not true, autumn days like today seem to be the longest in the entire calendar. Maybe it's something to do with an unexpected blessing of such gorgeous weather after a few days of warning of winter's onset, or maybe it's just the realisation that a day like today will be one of the last for a number of months to come and should therefore be savoured appropriately.

Even Finsbury Park manages to look stunning today, something that I'd not thought possible previously during my eight years in London.
The squirrels are plump and demanding to be fed, and have less fear than at other times of the year. Watching them bury nuts, they really seem to be gardeners in minuture, springing around the lawn to carefully select the best plot, scooping out the earth, and then gently tamping down the soil afterwards with their hind feet.

It can be a great time of year, and I think I'd gladly swap a fair share of summer for a similar number of autumnal days such as today.

One of the joys of wandering around London is keeping your eyes peeled for some of the historical detail tucked away in various parts of the city.

Over the years that I've lived in London I've noticed quite a number of horse drinking troughs, provided through the munificence of the Metropolitan Drinking Fountain and Cattle Trough Association. These days of course they are redundant, but they typically have preservation orders and are now retained as historic momuments.

Some I've noticed are filled with flowers, but more often they are simply filled with the litter of passersby. Each time I notice one I think about what sort of city London must have been when the roads were given over to horses and carts, and I wonder how the problems of horse-drawn traffic would have stacked up against the car congestion that we have these days.

I do remember reading a while back that many Londoners welcomed the appearance of automobiles, as it meant the streets would be free of horse dung. Little did they realise that they'd be swapping one form of pollution for another.