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…]
by Christopher Owen
She rummaged in her bag for cigarettes; then, remembering that smoking was not permitted, put them back. Her bag was always tidy. Mel’s, on the other hand, was always a mess. Stephanie had seen her trying to find a lost earring, pulling everything out onto her desk: old tissues, loose change, Tampax, brushes, mascara, lipsticks, sellotape, door keys, half-empty bottles of Evian. That had been the Friday before Christmas. [read more…]
The Twelve Days of Smoke
On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me…
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Again he thuds into Percy Ingle’s window; she sighs, scoops him up, tosses him back into Lewisham High Street, and tidies the London cheesecakes; tiny pigeon footsteps dent coconut strands.
by Matt Haynes
One afternoon in September, a bright-eyed young publisher walked into a small independent bookshop in South London with a large cardboard box containing copies of a shiny new book, and asked the manager if he’d like some. Sale or return, no money upfront, no risk. [read more…]
by Nydia Hetherington
Not wanting to seem ungrateful, I popped the A-Z nonchalantly into my backpack and thanked the Map Gods for their timely gift. The letting agent had given me good instructions, but a map would definitely be useful too. Except that Cheriton Square wasn’t on the map. When I got to Balham and opened the A-Z, I found that it had slipped down the crease between pages 108 and 109. [read more…]
Anatomy of London
by Alex Farebrother-Naylor
Number 9: East Dulwich
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by Matt Haynes
The caffs round King’s Cross are full of downcast Scotsmen eating breakfast. Outside O’Neill’s, others stand in kilts and saltires, pints in hand. Soon, it will be time to cross the Euston Road and catch the train back home. [read more…]
by Matt Haynes
Although obviously the stupid machine couldn’t actually see her. Probably a good thing too: right now, she must look every one of her eighteen-plus-forty-odd years. Such an awful day. All the financial stuff… she’d just never taken an interest. Never had to. And now here was this… this computer telling her she couldn’t buy a small bottle of red wine without “approval”. She hadn’t known they made them so small, not till she’d seen the display. [read more…]
Sadly, despite all the hoo-ha, the internet never really caught on in Deptford…
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