At Hampstead Heath station, Christmas bells are ringing – thin silver wind chimes, strung between the London planes. Lights appear from the west. Gusts, a chill, ghosts.
by Jude Rogers
Whitechapel station, for some time now, has been a peculiar place. Try to find a train northbound for Dalston Junction, or southbound to New Cross, for instance, and you’ll chance on a sign for the Overground, a name that might suggest futuristic monorails or fresh-air outdoor thrills or the glorious sunniness of above-the-earth transport. [read more...]
At Bow Church DLR, the bride boards, cream heels delicately minding the gap. Her right hand grips a posy, her left curls itself around a handrail, silver ring glittering.
Removing his coat, he breaks through the buses and levers himself over the railing that divides Upper Street. Dismounting, he smiles at me drunkenly, then jigs into Angel’s welcoming mouth.
Please Do Not Touch The Walrus No. 4
A fantastic new series in which we attempt to catalogue some of the amazing things you can’t do in our fabulous capital city. Today: congregating in Tower Hamlets. [see more...]
by Jude Rogers
I try to shake away the caffeine buzz, and look again. No, that’s a train, alright. It’s slowly advancing westwards in the morning’s heavy mist. And then I look at the sign on the platform to find out if the 8.14 to Gospel Oak is due to arrive on time. Something else is there instead. The 8.08 to Hampstead Heath. [read more...]
Who’s Going To Drive You Home Tonight? by Jude Rogers
I feel snug in the back, so I ask him his name. “Reg. Pleased to meet you. And you?” I tell him and we talk about that song by the Beatles. We share details for a while, give each other pocket-sized versions of our life stories: his family in Wales, how long I’ve been in the city. Then I ask him how long he’s been out here. How long he’s had the badge. How long it’s been since he had his blue book. [read more...]
On a brisk Sunday morning a gentleman in a long velvet morning coat and top hat rides a tiny pink-painted bicycle through the gutter on Lower Clapton Road.
Unreal City by Jude Rogers
So we went then, you and I, waiting for the rest of our lives to wake us from the winter. “Come,” I’d whispered on that white afternoon, as your train pulled away to the north and you still stood there on Silver Street’s empty platform, your cheeks iced and bright, your eyes warm, your arms wrapped tight around my ruby red coat. “Come and watch the spring begin with me.” [read more...]
Through Farringdon’s roof he comes, and hops on. Grey-feathered, stern-faced, a downturn in the beak. He stands peacefully until Great Portland Street. The doors cheep. He alights.