The Dalston Vigilante

The Shacklewell Harm was heaving.

Nigel sweated angrily while the barman chatted to his mates, before turning and walking towards him with a smile.

“Two pints of Doom, please, and a JD and Diet Coke.”

But the barman wasn’t smiling at him.

Nigel’s friends looked on, nonplussed, as he shouldered a hipster and forced his way to the exit.

Dalston was getting out of hand. It was time to take the power back. Continue reading “The Dalston Vigilante”

The Forest

You feel safe as you traipse alone, drunkenly, from the road into the first fair branches of the forest. Only the moon, rapier silver, lights your way, as you wend through trees to that familiar clearing. At peace in this now-still scene of teenage fumblings, you sweep cigarette butts to the edge with your boots. You build a small fire, set it burning with your second-last match, and hunker down, pulling jacket and blanket round you into oblivion. Continue reading “The Forest”