The Walk Home

Dear Reader

 Due to circumstances of a nature I am yet to understand, I have recently been forced to walk 20 minutes from Carnaby street to Chancery Lane every morning to get on the tube. At first this seemed to monumentus grievance but this is far from the truth.

London is a stunning city and as locals we tend forget that buried in the hustle and bustle of our day to day troubles. So to celebrate this fact I took some photos for you to enjoy:

   

Dear friends, relatives and frelatives

Dear friends, relatives and frelatives

At this time of celebration Tina, Harry and I would like to share with you the ups and downs what has been a turbulent year.

I am glad to say, after her third stint in rehab Tina has finally conquered her addiction to conkers, this has made her a much happier person, my sunny disposition of course is still mostly reliant on the liberal use of alcohol, antidepressants and class A drugs. 

Harry is finally coming out of his shell. He has joined the local track and field club, excelling in the 100m sprint which he completes in just under 11 days. It’s very disappointing.

Tina is insistent that I take up vegetarianism for health reasons, my response being that I intend on dying covered in the blood of my enemies, surrounded by their marinating carcasses.

By enemies I mean cows, pigs, chickens and all of whom have made the fatal error of being born delicious and slow witted.  

In April we endeavoured to create the country’s very first urban fox hunting club on our estate. Instead of horses and beagles we were to use bicycles and local dogs; 6 staffordshire terriers, 2 jack russells and a large cat named Spot.

Our efforts came to an abrupt halt when the authorities turned up. We explained that we had no intention of killing any foxes we merely wanted to round them up and educate them in proper bin raiding etiquette and such. 

They pointed out that several of our bikes were stolen from the local elementary school and that Spot was actually a small child in a particularly convincing onesy.

Apart from occasionally frightening the locals at Waitrose, by dressing up in a hoodie and asking where the discount beer at, I believe we have finally been accepted into the lower middle class society that is Wanstead.

Merry Christmas everybody and happy New Year.

Kindly yours,

Troy, Harry and Tina    

The thing he sells

The windows burnt with morning fire, so I moved across the table like a spider and poured the poison from the glass. The TV whistled and hummed with stars. All I saw was the dull ache that rots; death, hate and putrid states of being.

I must leave this place.

So I moved across the table like a spider through the broken door of my dreams and into the joyless sunlight. With fresh pain to sell the man, I placed my heart on a train that never stopped, to a desk that sounded like hungry teeth grinding. And as the moments beckoned, delighting in my misery I set my pen to the ground. I dug the grave of a thousand words and they paid in drops of my own blood.

I must leave this place.

Night crept and broke the heat with cool suits and the promise of love. So I moved across the table like a spider, through the ice that formed. Freedom stood open chested and beaten with the cat. I licked her face for just one sweet taste but her tears were acid and her skin began to flake. I sat to figure the situation; what had just began? At the other end the liquid stood waiting to be consumed.

I must leave this place. 

So I moved across the table and poured the poison from the glass.       

The Winter

Coats cling tightly to huddle figures in the wind. Night splits temporarily by the buzzing street lights’ yellow glow.

The bus waits.

Her hands rise to fend off his pleas, heart broken by a thousand deep and everlasting cuts.

He reaches for one last chance only to be brushed aside, her voice beating away his advances; she tilts her head downwards so as not to see him cry.

He serenades her with the memories of their youthful love; a tree that promised warm and tender fruit.

How badly he’d failed to tend her blossoms.

His knees meet the icy concrete; she steps away, long hair dancing like liquid darkness, to leave only gravity and his constant remonstrations weighing on his sanity and turning her name into screams.

But she would get on that bus, the longing would begin and she would look down on his wet and confused face from behind the frosty glass on a journey to the end of the line.

And he will know she is gone for the very last time.

The Grey Man

There once lived a man who'd forgotten how to dream. His home was full of neatly arranged boxes in which he packed all his troubles and ticked them off as he plodded soullessly from day to day.

A series a tedious daily, pressing routines tolled on the man’s very sanity and settled on his face in deep lines and crevasses. Food became another task and music faded into the background until only the clanging of alarms signalling a change from one state to the next could be heard.

His heart grew weary of from hopelessness.

On a day like any other, as he sat at his desk stamping relentlessly at his accounts in his now tiny living space, the ground tremored violently with ominous intent.

The house was torn in two as its roots shook forcefully with more, even mightier rumbles. The boxes, stacked high, collapsed all around crushing and pinning him to the ground. The things he worked hardest for now would end his life.

Suddenly the earth split violently pouring steam into the air and threatening to devour the man and all his labours.

With just seconds to live a miracle came over the unfortunate soul. The smoke cleared, the noise subsided and in the moment before he vanished, the sun touched his face, birds serenaded him, and the colours of the brightly lit day became real.

 Smells rose bringing back memories of loved ones, ones loved and the pure joy that was all but a distant past.

Hot baking bread; cinnamon loaves, the warmth of his mother’s kitchen as she sang joyfully to him, the grass of a thousand fields under bare feet, the tree of his first kiss, the popcorn of the broken down cinema that once shimmered with stars, his first car, the first touch of naked flesh, poured out of the recesses he'd hidden them in.           

As the ground gave way the man screamed in horror through tears of pure regret but there would be only one miracle that day.        

A Life In Famous Colours

Miranda bursts through the double doors, Glock 9 mm in one hand, money-bag in the other. I hear her laughing wildly behind the rubber ape-face mask as she charges across the forecourt to where I'm parked just beyond the pumps, engine running.

She throws herself into the back seat and rips away the face. Her dazzling blue eyes look feral and meet my concerned glare, her red lips part in a grin of pure wild spirit, blonde hair flowing like forest fire, suddenly I'm in love.

“Where the fuck is he?” I shout, dragged from my delirium by a wave of steadily pumping adrenaline.

He retreats out of the kiosk, Remington pump action at the hip; he shouts some unheard instructions to the terrified occupants and turns to leave. Relief washes over me.

A single shot from inside smashes through the glass. Albert is lifted off his feet and twists horribly in mid-flight, crashing heavily to the tar. Blood showers the sunlit morning.

The shock in the boosted 1967 Chevy Nova is palpable, Miranda screams, I scream before I can stop myself.

Albert picks himself up and staggers woefully in our general direction, a shadowy figure in a black hooded sweatshirt pushes the doors open and melts into the sun light.

The stranger lifts the barrel of a Desert Eagle with both hands, I catch a glimpse of tiger-eye gold ring on his little finger, and pulls the trigger.

The cannon cracks the day and eviscerates Albert’s head in a shower of blood scull and latex, his lifeless body is thrown like a rag and slams against the rear wheel of the Chevy.

He fires a third shot which clangs into the side of the car rocking it with great force.

I ram the gas and the beast’s engine responds with a roar and a squeal of rubber on the slick surface breathing smoke into the air.

The Chevy kicks right and slides into traffic there’s a crunch of metal as progress is halted by an unfortunate station wagon. I see the driver; his face is drowned in fear and confusion.

For a second everything stops, I hear my racing heart beat, feel the leather between my fingers the smoke in my lungs, for a second I live.

“Drive!” she screams through a veil of tears. I hit the hammer; this time the Beast’s traction is true.

I see the stranger in mirror; he points his cannon then thinks better of it as he fades into the distance.  

Harper's Bazaar

A red lipped beauty stares disdainfully at you through the smoke of her extended cigarette holder in velvet gloved fingers.

Ostentatiously styled and made up, with netting pouring over part of her face from a fascinator perched unfeasibly angled in her dark, sculpted hair. There is contempt in her eye; a visible anger at your shortcomings which she’s only too happy to point out.

If Harper’s Bazaar was a person this would be your first impression.

Rosie Huntington Whitely cuts a figure of fierce femininity on the striking cover of the September issue. “The Power of Fashion”, is the proud proclamation.

I thumb through the pages of beautiful people wearing beautiful clothes slightly intimidated by the sheer size of the tome like copy.

The art work dazzles from the very first page; the glamour and prestige promised by the fashion royalty blossoms in an array of well-chosen models, outfits and accessories. 

       

The articles blend in seamlessly and cover a wide range of subjects; fashion, art, literature, each one skilfully written and rapier sharp.

The big celebrity feature is written by Alex Bilmes.

He insightfully endeavours to extract a deeply human story from the model and actress Rosie Huntington Whitely’s life away from the stage. By the end I’m ready to forgive her for her role in destroying my boyhood love for shape shifting robots. 

In all Harper’s is not the ice queen she first appears to be, rather it’s a penetrating look at the trends that make life interesting.

Sure not everyone can afford this season’s Gucci pumps or the latest Tom Ford handbag and no one will ever look as good as Kate Moss in Stella McCartney, but Harper’s provides an opportunity for your imagination to take walk on the fab side.