“Do I look like someone who needs a sorbet-maker?” he dolefully asks the bleary-eyed flotsam piled up on the N3’s stairs as birthday gifts are passed between strangers for appraisal.
by Leighton Critchley
The man sitting opposite me on the tube
is reading Moby Dick.
He’s not quite
Old Canary Wharf Pier
some photos of the old pier…
Number 53 by Howard Colyer
Help me. You can! wrote the young man in the mist on the window as the bus headed south along the Old Kent Road. [read more...]
The Twelve Days of Smoke
On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me…
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.
Urban Intervention No. 23
With old-fashioned zebra crossings now an endangered species, why not thank courteous drivers by offering a friendly handshake through the passenger window as you cross?
by Matt Haynes
In the grass are, unmistakably, the ghosts of abandoned roads: cracked tarmac and kerbstones, carless and homeless, fading to brown and green. And here’s the thing: if you look in an old A-Z – one from the sixties, say – Burgess Park isn’t there. But those spectral streets are; and they have names, and purpose, and they’re drawn in hard black ink. There’s also a line of turquoise, running dead straight between them. [read more...]
THE ERITH PILE OF FISH
WHAT IS IT?
WHAT’S IT FOR?
WHO PUT IT THERE?
IT LOOKS LIKE A BIG PILE OF FISH…
[find out more...]
On the 17:10 to Crayford, she suddenly remembers Stockholm, and how he’d smiled when asking her name; and how she’d said “Madeleine”, because she’d known he’d never know it wasn’t.