A brief rumination on the fickleness of both women and space-time, and the possibility that access to some sort of infinite primordial darkness can be gained from the southbound Bakerloo Line platform at Waterloo.
A melancholy reflection on whether baklavas, beer, aubergine rasavangy and an 82nd-minute equaliser at Brisbane Road can ever compensate for the existence of Boris Johnson.
Why brown bears don’t make good housemates and Judy Brown has no use for oven gloves.
O dark devourer of the driver’s coin,
what broken dreams was this leap meant to fix? What hope-denuded skyline did enjoin you to cast off on this East London Styx?
Hackney’s lost ski-slope, and how Boy George nearly brought Duran Duran’s career to a premature end when, clutching a garish mojito, he hurtled down the dendix piste using Simon le Bon as a toboggan.
O noble lantern ’neath whose kindly fire
my love and I did oft together lark, our bodies, lust-engorged, ’twined in desire – why hast thou gone and left us in the dark?
Two disconsolate psychogeographers reflect on how some of the ley lines that were dug up to build the Basketball Arena for the 2012 Olympics had been there since the days of King Lud.
A driver on the last remaining Routemaster service, the 159 from Marble Arch to Streatham, reflects on the relative inflexibility of women and buses.