by Steve Lake
But maybe my memory is playing tricks, for working at Foyles in the 80s wasn’t unlike a trip on some fairly serious hallucinogenic drugs. There was, for example, the story of the disgruntled employee sowing seeds into the specially moistened carpets of the rarely-visited Philosophy Department on a Friday evening and returning on Monday to find a small field of cress, ready to be added to his sandwiches. [read more…]
Piccadilly Line
by Leighton Critchley
The man sitting opposite me on the tube
is reading Moby Dick.
He’s not quite
halfway through.
[see more…]
PIGEONS IN PUDDLES No.8: Kingsway
by Matt Haynes
KEVIN PIGEON: Here you go, Em – d’you see what I mean?
EMILY PIGEON: This is what you’ve brought me to see?
KEVIN PIGEON: Yes. Don’t you just love how the leaf is, as it were, juxtaposed with the reflection of the tree?
EMILY PIGEON: It’s a leaf.
[read more…]
by Matt Haynes
Whenever the need to fondle something long and wrinkly grew too much to bear – which, after the death of her beloved Albert, was at least twice a week – lucky old Queen Victoria seldom found herself frustrated in the way of ordinary women, for one of the perks of being Empress Of All The Pink Bits was a plentiful supply of pachyderms, gifts from foreign potentates to whom such beasts were, frankly, little more than garden pests. [read more…]
The cat in the red plastic box stares resentfully through the bars as if to say “beneath the table of a Drury Lane cafe is no place for a Persian Blue.”