The sun is glaring. Its evil intent to off guard London and its malice smile burn and blister a population carrying umbrellas to work. I leave shortly after the rain has fallen for what seems like an eternity, The pavement feels sodden and the trees lining York Grove hung heavy and tired. My nose is warning my of the impending stream of symptoms I will start to feel as the day unwinds unfortunately not with the gently lullaby accompanying a dancing ballerina but more with the sound of an ancient torture device being used slowly and with great precision on bone. My bowels ache and my stomach is churning. Nicotine, nicotine and nicotine feeds the pain and the codeine gently starts to weave its magic on my stoned, tired and jaded mind.
I look into the street dotted with big, expensive black cars. Peckham. Land of gold it would appear if you are willing to accept gold is sometimes white and brown.
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