Back room of Café Alba.
Crystalline December morning.
Usual assortment of moody pensioners, mini cab drivers and market stall traders. Traces of the Blitz, housing association tension and every day frustrations loop and barb in the agitated vowels.
Round the back I clamber through concrete bunkers, steel cages,to maisonettes upstairs that are always catching fire. Cardboard and plywood in the windows, Macdonalds stench rising through grilles on the stairwell.
Cash converters, Money shop. Rise of religious zealotry, proliferation of pawnbrokers.
When you emerge at the tube station it feels hectic and erratic, radios blaring ,market stalls and pound shops exploding on the streets.
Capital Radio channels vicious boredom.
Under the railway arch, formica tables. Fruit machine by door. Snooker hall at back.
Looking out through 70s rubber plants . Magic Cut barber. MOT here.
Luminous stars, mince and onion pie, chips and peas £3.20.Cascading plastic plants. Train rumbling overhead. Brown plastic chairs.
His head’s done in, but then there was no need for the Tramadol after all that booze.