Lying by Camden Lock in the sunshine, on a patch of damp grass, listening to the tube train rattle on. An old man in a canal boat drifts by, contented with boredom. A young unclean, unshaven man reads a copy of The Sun, the newspaper catching the shimmerings of the water. Next to me, a polish looking man with bronze skin and pointed features, sits yawning, reflecting on the emptiness of his life.
Some punk lovers sit cross-legged and share a beer, gossiping and bitching intensely. Thumping music comes from the market. Metallic, industrial sounds screech upward from the garages and work yards. Traffic. Delivery vans.
An Arab man smokes a hooka at the water’s edge, and he watches a young couple feed two eager, hyperactive swans.
The voices of student girls, laughing as they eat Chinese take away, irritates me, while I try distract myself, studying the plain ornateness of the Victorian bricks, stained and whitewashed by a century at the water.