London as a Stranger

It's coming up to nearly ONE WHOLE CRAZY YEAR since I moved out of my wonderful dilapidated old South London pad, with its peeling walls and quivering doors of questionably worthwhile functionality. I even miss the hole in the kitchen ceiling, through which you could chat to whoever was in the bath - or on the loo. In late summer it all seemed so romantic and bohemian - like a time recaptured by a Modernist novelist as they reminisce their early years trying to make it as a writer with no money. Which it kind of was like, except a lot colder and with a great deal more junk mail and bothersome fundamentalist Christians knock-knock-knocking on the door noon and night with a leaflet that would SAVE OUR SOULS.

Now when I go back to London to visit friends (
or make music videos!) I have gradually felt myself slipping into the sensation of being an outsider, a visitor, who has no home there any longer, who wanders the streets wondering where they'll sleep tonight, without a set of keys in their pocket and only a very overused travel card. So, I thought I'd share some memories with you in black and white. Memories that already feel like they belong to another life, of someone I read about.

(Maybe look at them while listening to this. It makes them make sense some how, and its what I'm listening to while typing this.)

OK, these last two had to be in colour!

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