Unseasonalness

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.

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Crystal Palace Rd

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.