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.
Author: andrewcstevenson
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.
71. Thursday afternoon.
There does seem to be a depressing inevitability to all of this. Three things have happened today. I initially called them major things, but I’m not so sure now. It is hard to tell what is significant. The immediate world feels surreal. President Macron of France has announced new national lockdown restrictions. The population will … Continue reading 71. Thursday afternoon.
168. Post-everything time.
It is that in-between Christmas and New Year time. Roughly three years ago I began this journal with a similar sentence, sitting up on that balcony in Victoria station. I miss that time, those evenings, the romantic dreaming of far away places, like Purley Oaks. I had to think carefully then to work out whether … Continue reading 168. Post-everything time.
9. Saturday. (Passport to, or from) Pimlico.
The first day of a new era. I’m feeling an odd sense of not-quite-euphoria, not because I think today’s brave new world of blinkered independence is a good thing, far from it. It isn’t even necessarily of world significance either. Let’s not forget that we are a mere small island with an astonishing sense of … Continue reading 9. Saturday. (Passport to, or from) Pimlico.
169. The beginning of the year.
In hospital, on top of a hill near a common in Woolwich. Who knew Woolwich had a nice part? Who knew hospitals could still be so ghastly? I’ve been here several times in the last week. The department I’m being examined by has relocated. It feels like there is a sense of organisation, but the … Continue reading 169. The beginning of the year.
48. Thursday in a country of fascists.
Pay day so I’m on a trip out of London to the coast. The sky is grey, the way I like it. I’ve been making film of the Thames in grey mist, monochrome, still, noir-esque. Croydon has a look of a mid-American city with tall buildings, straight roads, everything bland. I could live there and … Continue reading 48. Thursday in a country of fascists.
173. Tuesday, St Pancras again. Writing with a finger injury.
I don’t do this so much anymore, so I think my observational perception is a little out of tune. An aura of perception, as it was once referred to in an episode of Hancock’s Half Hour, unexpectedly. I don’t do many of the things I want to these days. Photography, cycling, I want to roam … Continue reading 173. Tuesday, St Pancras again. Writing with a finger injury.
