Mortimer Street

Twilight, Mortimer Street. As the ties are shed and the sleeves rolled up, they drift towards Soho on a tide of continuity, unbroken in
a world broken by sad news. Still walk with lowered dusk past the buses trundling down Oxford Street, their routes iridescent in this late
hour.

Power gone, and I am alone and it all churns me up inside and flips me, maddened and out of control. So I swiftly sink a Baileys on ice laced delicately with a cheap Irish whiskey, and sigh to taste the lingering aroma. Ethanol sedates though lightly so the feather stroke doesn't strike down with sleep.

The next day I decided to go fishing and I swear that once I had past dead rats on the riverbank and settled on upturned concrete something
industrial along the Grand Union Canal, the London suburbs became a better place laden with ambrosia hopes.

On the opposite bank stood a factory and a warehouse; producing and storing an unknown urban mystery, but I wasn't curious. All I cared about was the way the late afternoon sun played sensual little teaser games on discarded tubing and corrugated steel.

So fucking lovely, I'm telling you it was, I could hardly keep an eye on my bob bobbing float, always ready for a bite whilst I drank dry
cider from a can.

Maybe it was the sun, maybe it was the wind and cool cider, but the float bobbed under for a brief second whipped from my sight into the
murky canal undergrowth. Quick I jerked frightened of losing control but when I reeled the line in, guess what? Guess what was hanging on the end of
my line, impaled and gasping in air? Absolutely nothing.