I like it round here. I could consider living here, although I doubt I could afford it. This area is one of only a small handful of places where I have roots. I’m not sure I like that word roots, in this context. I don’t know of any alternative to use though, and much as … Continue reading 105. Saturday, having lunch at lunchtime, in Wanstead.
Author: andrewcstevenson
100. Thursday.
A grey, wet afternoon. This week feels null and void. Perhaps it’s another transitional period, which means the uncertainty is understandable and acceptable. I don’t know if it really is a time for imminent change, or if I’m creating that notion in my imagination just to justify or excuse the general wretchedness. I feel dysfunctional, … Continue reading 100. Thursday.
31. Friday.
A humid, moist, tense unsettled day. Another protest in Trafalgar Square. Prosecco on the train. Alone. Grey sky, dusk at 6.30pm. Noise outside, voices. Every day is like this now. Kim’s idea of Australia is appealing; an abandoned mining town in the outback with an artists’ colony. Resident for a year, with a slow trip … Continue reading 31. Friday.
158. Truth, festivals, freaks, living.
The following Sunday, the same place. The same unusual secret train service over the hill to get here. It even arrives at the hidden forgotten platform. I’ve heard in tedious online railway circles that train drivers are not certain they are allowed to drive trains in or out of it. That may not be true, … Continue reading 158. Truth, festivals, freaks, living.
70. Tuesday afternoon. Mid-luncheon at St Pancras.
A young man is sitting at the next table, boyish looks, slack grey sweater, smooth neck, we are close, physically, separated by a Perspex screen. The juxtaposition feels voyeuristic. There’s a voicemail message on my ‘phone, but I can’t access it because of PIN number uncertainty. I wonder who it was. Normally I don’t worry … Continue reading 70. Tuesday afternoon. Mid-luncheon at St Pancras.
84. Wednesday.
Refusing to be creative isn’t a good place to be in for the long term. Did I mean refusing? I don’t think I did. Perhaps I was referring to external forces stifling my creativity, or making creative activity difficult, impractical. That’s always been the internal battle for me. I can’t imagine I would have ever … Continue reading 84. Wednesday.
131. The numbers are going up.
That’s what the media is saying. The numbers. Numbers can be made to say or do anything if people are clever with numbers, though. Monday afternoon at St Pancras, with muscular arms either side of me. I’m looking ahead at a week of freedom. I’m not sure if that is the right word, I haven’t … Continue reading 131. The numbers are going up.
174. Sunday. St Pancras, although I was indecisive about coming here.
The train went over Tanners Hill, which is unusual these days. That’s the main reason I came out. Such a strange thing, but I feel slightly nostalgic seeing the view over Lewisham Vale and the fast run up to London Bridge. It reminds me of times gone by when travelling to work was enjoyable. Now … Continue reading 174. Sunday. St Pancras, although I was indecisive about coming here.
7. A Monday. In the city.
The asian man here is oddly attractive. Smooth skin. Tight-ish fitting clothes. Not too thin or too anything. A deep slightly rough rasping voice, actually more West Indian south London roughness. Perhaps he’s mixed with that. Is it okay for me to call people brown? I’ve been talking to a man on scruff who uses … Continue reading 7. A Monday. In the city.
49. Thursday.
Two and a half books of this writing. I don’t know whether to call it “work” or not, as in “a body of work”. Work, when used to describe the sort that we are supposed to go to every day, is an emotive, loaded word. A lunatic on a men’s social website has been questioning … Continue reading 49. Thursday.
Andrew Stevenson 