Street Sadness

I left Hackney at 10am and caught a train to Faversham to pick up my suitcase which due to the spite of my brother I had to collect from the police station - it being 'neutral ground'. As soon as I arrived at Faversham train station I realised that I had inadvertently descended into the First Circle of Hell, for it was the day of the annual Hops Festival - Faversham being a major brewery town. The station entrance was choked with people of all ages sauntering, mooching, dawdling or just standing about in untidy, gormless groups. Many of these people had wreaths of hops entwined around their big, plain heads and they gazed aimlessly about them in a slack-jawed, dull-eyed kind of way. I pushed through the dazed crowd and walked across the zebra crossing in order to enter the main street of this doll-village, and I now entered the Second Circle of Hell. Unusually, I couldn't see any of the shops along the street because the street was engorged with a crowd, tens of thousan...

   I dine out with a couple in their mid-forties and early-fifties, respectively. They watch their two-year-old running dementedly around the courtyard of the village restaurant, getting under the feet of the waiters. The parents say nothing to the child to keep it in check. I bite my tongue. Eventually the boy returns to sit on its mother's lap, in time for the waiter to take our order. The boy yells at the waiter, "Go away! My Daddy is fine! My Daddy doesn't want anything. Go away!" I bite my tongue. The parents both laugh at the child's antics. He then continues his domination over the pair by running around their table and complaining about everything. He throws his woollen rabbit onto the next diner's table. The mother stands and says, "I think I'd better take him home, he clearly doesn't want to be here". The father says, "It's ok. Steve is here to  amuse him." He nods in my direction. I bite my tongue. She sits back down ...

    I stepped into the Duke of Wellington, which is very close to where I am staying in Dalston. Five old long-term locals stood at the bar. They were in their sixties. They eyed me suspiciously as I went up to order my pint. I paid for my drink and sat at a nearby table: five pairs of eyes followed me there and stayed trained upon me for several rather uncomfortable minutes. Eventually, the men returned to their varied conversations. They were all half-tanked and they held their pint jars in their massive, big-knuckled hands - hands which, I surmised, had caused their share of damage in the past. Four of the men were standing at the bar, and the fifth - a wizened old geezer with dyed black hair and a grey, crumpled, sad face - was sitting on a bar stool between them. He was now holding court, and wheezing spectacularly.    "They told me years ago that I should've had it cut aht. It's been in my left lung for four or five years now. But I said no. Once they've ...

I walked into my local cafe in Dalston. Three workmen sat inside, near the counter, waiting for their breakfasts to be delivered. They were covered in plaster and white paint from their early start. I ordered my full English breakfast at the counter and then chose a table near the men so that I could hear their conversation. The eldest - clearly their leader - a sun-bronzed Cockney with a deeply-lined face, seemed to be doing all the talking: the other two nodding along and occasionally offering a 'Yep' or 'Nah' in response.   "By the time I got there it woz goin' off! An this Jamaican bloke 'e's got 'is gun aht an' 'e's wavin' it in me fahkin' face. I juss' wen' over and grabbed 'is fahkin' arm an' bent it back, like THIS ...", At this he point he leant over the table and demonstrated his arm-bending, shooter-disabling technique on the arm of the youngest plasterer, who had offered his splattered arm in...

On Tuesday afternoon I met my good friend Nick F. at Dalston Junction station. We had planned a long afternoon of drinking and discussion and laughs. All of these elements were achieved. Dalston as usual was teeming with shoppers, workers, builders, kids, mothers, immigrants, locals, the burnt-out, the skinned and the scored; the whole panoply of life going on all around. The noise was wonderful; the constantly drifting horde remarkable. We found ourselves in a pub close to the station, our intention being to start as we meant to continue. Beer was collected. Around the door and windows there were many laminated sheets of A4 paper with signs printed loudly on them. Some said that anyone caught selling drugs on the premises would be handed to the police. Some said that on Saturday night only people over 25 would be allowed to set foot inside. Nick and I began our discussion by tying up loose ends from last time: Rauschenberg; Warhol; Gilbert & George’s state of the art ...

I walked along the towpath of Regents Canal in Hackney, listening out for the death-defying cyclists who belt along the narrow ledge in both directions at terrifying speed, and the wheezy grunts of the joggers pounding the concrete in their teeming hordes. The swish of lycra from both parties is deafening. Close to one of the low bridges that span the limpid green water, I neared a group of children crouched by the edge of the track. They were watching a pair of Moorhens and their new-hatched chicks who had swum over to the canal wall by the kids' feet. The parent birds were bobbing down to the moss-green depths and emerging with morsels for the babies. These five infants had a bald, scalded look - all red and patchy - and they bobbed uncertainly in a ragged holding pattern. One of the children was on his knees on the concrete, reaching his hand out over the flotilla of birds. I thought he was helping them out with scraps of bread. But as I got closer I saw that he had a handfu...

I walked up the herringboned, brick-paved street. It was 6 pm and the town was nearly deserted. But as I passed by the shuttered and barred shops the furious bellow of a man in his early-thirties resounded along the walkway. I turned to observe the possessor of such a dramatic and lordly foghorn. He was with two little girls; one daughter was about five and the other around seven years of age; each girl was in possession of a pink tricycle and a silver bicycle, respectively.    "Look at me, Yolanda!" he roared, his face inches away from the child's, his anger completely subsuming him, to the point where he no longer cared that to the outside world he revealed himself to be a complete shit.    "You stupid little idiots! How dare you ride away like that?! I am so fucking furious with you both! I let you go a little way ahead and you fucking well charge off out of sight! You stupid fucking idiots! What were you fucking thinking? ... That's right! You weren't t...

The middle-aged gay man sitting facing me on the train was relaying an elaborate story to his partner about an injury he had sustained the previous week.    "Yes, it was dreadful! The pain spread from here all the way right up to here." With the flat of his hand he indicated the trajectory of the pain, from his left knee to his crotch, where it hovered, trembling, at the memory of the trauma. His friend's face crumpled in sympathy and he said,    "That is definitely not an area you want to tangle with, pain-wise."    "I know!  And the thing is, I was laying full out on the floor, moaning like a rotten spastic, until Roger finally made an appearance, several hours late, surprise, surprise! And she never said a word when she saw me stretched out there in all my naked glory, like Lady Muck. Just went straight out to the kitchen to put the kettle on."   "Well, she was never one to be observant, let's face it."   "I mean, what did s...

Another lovely day in Hackney and in the afternoon I decided to walk over to my regular lunchtime haunt, a family-run business down the road that serves delicious fresh rolls and sandwiches. I sat inside watching the little dramas out on the street. As my lunch arrived at the table a Hipster girl entered and strode up to the counter.   "Gimme a cuppa coffee to take with me", she ordered. The young proprietor set about making it for her. All the while she hopped from one foot to the other, flicking  her greasy ponytail back and forth around her small, round head, her clunky boots resounding against the wooden floorboards. The proprietor handed her the coffee. She took it without thanking him and then barked, "And give me a chicken begat". He looked non-plussed, as was I. She continued, "Begat! Begat!... Chicken begat!" It took me a moment to realise that she meant 'baguette'. I continued eating my delicious lunch and sipping my strong tea and wat...