by Jess Sully
A known introvert from a town with wide skies and a vast, shimmering expanse of sea, I didn’t think I’d be happy among the hemmed-in crowds. What I didn’t realise then is that within the anonymity of the ever-flowing throng, those shoals of fast-moving fish who swoop and turn as one entity, I could move silently, unobtrusive and unremarkable. And now I know, too, that sometimes at low tide the Thames smells of brine and seaweed. [read more…]
Oblivious to lunchtime crowds, he strides towards Holborn Circus – sharp suit flashing in the Hatton Garden windows, mobile clenched tight – shouting: “You’re the one who told me you loved me…”
by Jack Pandemian
School nights have no meaning until September so we roam, my friend and I, within the boundaries of our Zones 4-5 school bus passes. Brixton is too far, Zone 2. Camden is unimaginable. But out here there is a club above a pub where every Saturday the walls run with snakebite sweat, and where the carpet sucks lecherously at your boots as you lift one foot and then the other to the jangling sound of L7. [read more…]
Things On The Isle Of Dogs
Which Are Actually A Bit Disturbing
When You Stop And Think About Them
Number One
Dog Bin, Island Gardens
[see more…]
Wood Wharf
Ah, that would explain the name…
[see more…]
With hair gelled to spikes and skin still pink from blade and Lynx, the Sidcup boys in their crisp white Saturday shirts all look vaguely like friends of Frank Lampard.
Hell Is Other People’s Laptops by Dale Lately
You try to picture yourself bedding down here for the night. You imagine making a bit of conversation with the other guy, trying to overcome the intimacy of undressing in front of one another, of negotiating when you’ll switch the lights off and go to sleep. Or maybe he’ll continue all night with his laptop and speed metal. The light in here is either the flat bulb or darkness. You feel a sort of lurch of misery and homesickness, or just sickness. [read more…]
by Andrzej Ryan
Here in Brompton Cemetery, there are signs which forbid off-path wandering. Brompton is neat and tidy and intends to stay that way. But a waterproof-wearing rebel is creeping amongst the stones; bearded and bespectacled, he is carefully taking rubbings from the headstones. There are dog-walkers, cyclists and a pair of old men having a row. Two young women walk purposefully down a side path. [read more…]
In Esmeralda, City of Water
In a disused Southwark churchyard, an invisible city is made visible in neat lines of chalk. [read more…]
