7am Sunday clang. Clumsy gloved hands assembling clothing rails before dawn. Fluorescent £5. Reclaiming the street from the sockless Essex of a few hours before. We slept tight in a tight bed in a tight bedsit flat above it all. 60 degree white over the landlady’s purple. Groups half listen to the tales of a sadistic serial killer. It’s been long enough. I politely walk through them into the Sainsbury’s. Years before, I’d walked behind army surplus camo jackets and Dr. marten’s to the market. Every Sunday, I sought out the market seller who spoke with an electrolarynx. He’d try to defer to his Vietnamese wife, but she always just shrugged with indifference. I bought cameras and guitars, none of which worked. The next stall sold Lomo cameras. I couldn’t afford one, but I bought a Holga. The camera came with a roll of black tape to block out the light leakage onto the film. The market closed for redevelopment. Now there’s a Wagamama, if you were looking for one. We met o...
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