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…]
by Alex Cary
It never ceases to amaze me how fast the Elephant is gentrifying. There he is, late forties, full mac, three-piece suit, a tie pin, designer glasses and a briefcase chained to his arm. I can almost touch the aura emanating from his bonus. When did these people start leaving Chelsea? The lift stops. We’re only at the first floor. Another exercise dodger? No, great, it’s a kid, hood up indoors, the height of August. The banker freezes. [read more…]
In the tombless gloom of bombed St Mary’s churchyard, between the Elephant and the looming shell of a dead hotel, he carefully unfolds a music stand, and uncases his trombone.
In Esmeralda, City of Water
In a disused Southwark churchyard, an invisible city is made visible in neat lines of chalk. [read more…]
The MoD this morning called for calm after confirming that London had been invaded overnight by Ant People. “We’ve offered to take them to our leader,” a spokesman said sadly, waving a photo of Boris Johnson, “but it seems they just want to go through our bins.” [read more…]
… on her way through Newington Gardens that morning, Fiona suddenly realised that life on Earth would never be the same again [read more…]
as heard by Matt Haynes
Number 100 to… Shadwell. The next stop is… Pocock Street – oh, look, I really can’t be doing with all this. If you didn’t know what route I was or where I was going, why would you have got on? I mean, I’m contractually obliged to spout all this guff, but frankly it just insults us both. [read more…]