Mark Sadler

May 122014
A Short Journey Downriver

A Short Journey Downriver by Mark Sadler
Twice a day, when the tide is high, the Thames floods the broad, low-ceilinged underground channel from which the Granville emerges. During the autumn and winter, as the temperature drops, these back surges create localised fogs that linger along Upper and Lower Thames Street. The river that London buried alive rises like a ghost through the porous layers of paving to reassert its claim upon its former overground course. [read more…]

Oct 212013
A History of Fennel in Wimbledon

by Mark Sadler
If Father Hendlam were alive today he would grab Martin Young vigorously by the shoulders and shake him from his stupor, not in anger, but in a kind of evangelical fervour. He would drag him before a mural in the nave at St Mary’s that depicts a cross-section of a London fennel bulb, and point out a small section in the labyrinth named “the alleyway of lust”. “Do you SEE that, boy?” he would bellow. “There’s where you are.” [read more…]

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Sep 022013
Remembering Sea Alley

Remembering Sea Alley by Mark Sadler
I grew up in a dockers’ terrace on Sea Alley, in East London. Our house was one from the end of the row, near to where the street split into three tributaries, like an old piece of frayed rope. A stone staircase ran along the front of the houses. When the water was at its highest point, it would come up over the third step, leaving the fourth step clear for you to walk on. [read more…]

Feb 252013
31 Horseshoes

by Mark Sadler
It was a Roman scholar called Philetus who, in 197 AD, first wrote of two great herds of wild horses that he claimed were engaged in an unending circular migration of the lands surrounding the Britannian city of Londinium. The herds were of unequal size. The slightly larger one travelled in a direction that we would now refer to as clockwise; the other went counter-clockwise. [read more…]

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Aug 302012
Kent Moue

by Mark Sadler
I had been blasted into a low orbit by a potent combination of top-notch E and copious brandy shots which had seemed like a good idea when I began ordering them. Staggering back to the dining room, I took a wrong turn and found myself standing in one of several doorways to the huge kitchen. Lying on the aluminium counter, a few inches from a pair of gently simmering saucepans, was a Kalashnikov assault rifle. [read more…]

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