West Kensington

By samhennig
- 226 reads
Through a long, thin row of PVC windows you can see two glass chandeliers hung close against the ceiling, clinging like barnacles so that people can walk underneath.
Down the road a barber shop welcomes another customer, more full at 6:30pm on a Wednesday night than any of the local pubs, where within one, three men wearing orange high vis trousers and vests sit on high stools, beacons alight, emerging from a red and grey patterned carpet that has lain sodden with Foster’s trodden underfoot for more years than those men have been alive.
With heads tucked into knees homeless people with small cardboard signs act like distance markers, dotted every 200 feet. HUNGRY, GOD BLESS.
Cars pass incessantly, a light mist that has hung in the air all day has made the roads wet and their tyres make a very particular noise, a sort of dull crunch, like someone in the room next door reaching deep into a nearly empty crisp packet.
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