Deepest Darkest Deptford
I love Deptford, me. It’ the realest place in the world.
I had some business to take care of in the place this morning; sorting out my flat I’m renting out, getting my suit for Saturday’s party dry-cleaned and having breakfast in the greasiest of greasy spoons. My local bacon sarnie joint. I miss it.
Driving my sister’s nice red Polo around was a bit hairy. Luckily the white van drivers on the Old Kent Road are used to numpty-avoidance tactics and I managed to bring the thing in unscathed. I used to be a tiger in my old beemer. Now I’m a complete muppet.
I love that I can understand everyone, and that everyone can understand me. Here’s a snippet of conversation I heard on Evelyn Street. A mid thirties, black Saaaaf-London woman talking into her mobile.
“I gotta take a picture of that motherfucker. That shit don’t look real, Jen.”
Sweet As.
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I think you ought to come back for 3 days to a week every couple of months, just long enough to have fun, and remind you why you wanted to escape