Passers By

These things passed the train: Woking station; bare land, fenced and rutted by demolition; other passengers, copied into the train’s glass; moss on roofs; the scratched and soiled back entrances to high streets; small utilities and leavings that no-one wanted to live by; England’s colour: grey-washed green; crumbling schools, the top of a petrol station and in a back-bedroom someone┬áhe didn’t know fastening up┬átheir top button.

Published in: on February 3, 2010 at 8:08 pm  Comments (5)  


At Clapham Junction Foible smelled piss eddying in the covered walkway. A man used his phone but talked as much on to the platform as in to the call. He said ‘Jamaica’ and ‘daily rate’. Foible rubbed his hands. Sundays’ travellers are quiet and ill-defined but their journies sharpened. Settings-out and other separations are focussed and real; those who move through them, hazy, slackened, enervated. But Foible, unanchored and unreferenced felt rooted in himself. After all, he and the other travellers were the makers of Monday.

Published in: on February 3, 2010 at 7:35 pm  Leave a Comment  


Foible went to Ireland. Through all of the journey this was the best light he found. The meagre rest hung slack off trees or coiled under cars.

Published in: on February 3, 2010 at 7:32 pm  Leave a Comment