Iam standing in the centre of London’s Millennium Bridge, on a blisteringly cold Tuesday morning in April, with St. Paul’s Cathedral looming behind me and a veritable flotilla of noisy tugboats tooting below. Overhead, a bevy of jets continues to whoosh by, whipping up the wind; and with no overcoat to protect me, I have begun to freeze. Hundreds of mid-morning commuters rush past in both directions, wondering why I remain so absolutely still in the centre of the bridge, sporting merely a thin cashmere jacket, with makeup smeared all over my face. I have now stood here, virtually motionless, for approximately two hours, and I seem to have very little sensation remaining in any of my extremities.