Last Nights

As the summers get hotter, I swear London loses a little bit more of its collective mind. August is the month things happen. People snap or let loose. Year on year, this is the month we end up having weird encounters with weird people. The consequences are sometimes shocking but never not entertaining.

Within the last month we’ve seen two police hard stops in the neighbourhood and this week there was a huge party that got shut down on the block. Ten police cars showed up. And a dog. I feel like we’re living in an episode of Cops.

The pictures above were taken at 3am. For all the excitement, I am very tired today. Interestingly, no one else in the neighbourhood really seemed to care. I’ll never not be surprised by how indifferent Londoners are to events outside their houses. I am, unfortunately, a perennial curtain-twitcher. I like to watch the drama.

And don’t tell me things don’t look that little bit more spectacular with Canary Wharf looming over the horizon. As ominous as that skyline is, I quite like it. At its most dysfunctional, Deptford can get quite Ballardian — worlds layered on top of worlds. I’m going to miss it when we move to Brontë country in a few weeks. Just a little bit.

This is me savouring our last nights, before I disappear completely up some idealised literary imaginary.

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