Miasmic kind of humidity that saps the energy. This is the ground-down fag end fuck up at the end of the week.
SOHO and a bottle of wine in one of those fancy wine coolers that no one wants to drink and
At one point I have three drinks on this table, a whisky, a lager and a wine. There is:
A nightclub called, in all caps, “STRATFORD’S GOT SWAGGA” and Ye Olde Black Bull is Hopper tonal colours into the dusk and we have:
A BIG shopping centre and a new(ish) train station selling all manner of worldy goods at top dollar prices.
This is the 104 bus and it sweeps past the old shopping centre and we’re onto the Portway and back into a land of aloo chana in a tray for 99p and someone is cooking something and I make some fish and chips but its battered oven cook haddock and I wonder about that aspirational quality that YOU had for the Instagram filtered perfection of a life already looked at in vintage rose-tint.
We all have our nostalgia fetishes I guess.