Strange things seem to happen in pairs. Outside Liverpool Street Station this evening was a Brass Band ensemble burning through a cover of Motorhead's Ace of Spades. It took me some time, I admit, to finally pin the tune down - the swinging trombones and hooting trumpets hid it - but eventually I picked it out.

I had to hurry on to a westbound train, so I've no idea whether their set continued in the same vein. I'm sure they must have. There's an affectionate irony in this kind of tribute, which the funkily dressed musicians and their delighted commuter audience seemed to be revelling in.

So that's the right shoe, here's the left to make the pair up.

I had a drink with a friend shortly after leaving Liverpool Street, and what made it an odd, yet for the day, apt occasion, was what he said about his kid's pet rabbit; it loves rock music. Like a moshpit veteran, his rabbit steadies itself in the centre of the action, equidistant between the speakers, luxuriating in the maelstrom of throbbing lead guitars, rumbling basses, and herculean drumming.

And it seems bizarrely to know what pose to adopt according to whatever rock music sub-genre my friend has playing. He put on Dark Star, a particularly trippy Grateful Dead song, left the room, then came back to see the rabbit on it's back, flaked out on a cushion, eyes closed. Some kinda rabbit.