A tree blossoms pink in this mild December, on a street in Southwark, lined with victorian townhouses, converted into flats.
December’s a strange time for blossom.
Among the milling throngs of Oxford Street, fake snow brushed my cheek, disseminated from above the entrance of the flagship Topshop. A woman who passed looked up at its source, her face illuminated in passive delight.
December’s the right time for fake snow, I guess.
Planes whistle low over the austere Victorian housefronts and gables of Dulwich, somewhere up in the thick grey cloud cover of a balmy Summer night.
I pass tall, square, three storey town houses. The ones which have kept their integrity as homes have well-kept paintwork; jam-packed bookshelves and stylish light fixtures visible through ground floor bay windows.
The ones which have been divvied up into flats are drabber, less preserved. Off-white net curtains guard the privacy of tenants in living rooms-cum bedrooms, the tenants who are summoned separately by the different bells lining the front door.
Among these homes are private flats that used to be public shopfronts; bouji gastro pubs that used to be east end boozers.