by MW Bewick
Hattie also remembered that when my father was a child he had described the river as a yawning snake, which to me seems precocious. To him, snakes meant danger, and the space below the bridges was filled with slithering horror. They found things in rivers too. It said so on the news. Whatever people secreted in the unfathomable water eventually washed up. [read more…]
by Alex Farebrother-Naylor
London Rage
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The whiteboard at Southgate station says services are normal on all lines except the Central; on the Central, it says, they are good.
“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.
Piccadilly Line
by Leighton Critchley
The man sitting opposite me on the tube
is reading Moby Dick.
He’s not quite
halfway through.
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Old Canary Wharf Pier
some photos of the old pier…
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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…
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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.
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?