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Teenage boys at the bus stop, a crosshatch of complex handshakes and interactions, shoulder socket into one another, hoods up. The girls walk to school and I pass them in the morning: arms linked, bags from high street chains, headscarves, make-up in tidelines.

The colours before the rain are heavy, pregnant, hazed together, and afterwards, bright and clear. A new and lovely client in a central square, up four flights of stairs and level with a dome, a golden cross, lines of window pane.

The man at the stop asks if I want to stand under his umbrella. The bus to Waterloo is packed and sweaty with condensation. I walk instead. The taste of rain, wet tarmac, hissing tyres.

This is a short post, I’m going north, speak soon xx

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