Marney Road, Clapham
the grey voice crackled over the PA like some old drunk clearing his throat in the dark, spitting out the names of places nobody really believed in anymore. platform three, homeward bound, cold enough to crack. five more inches had fallen in the night and had gone to slush, working its way into the holes
The Clocks
under the white fluorescence of the beer garden, the oak tables gleamed against the pine, their surfaces marked with faint rings where ashtrays once stood. the coasters still carried their faded pictures of maidens; the empty glasses held thin circles of dry froth along their rims. I had a pint in front of me, my