Sky over the Common

Sydenham Hill Wood

a beautiful place... liked it better this time round...

Stormy Coloured Sky

Tooting Veg

Birdy

I endeavour 

not to wait forever

for you birdy-

Pastel Pink and Snow White

...reflections- behind, glass...

Treading on Ice

Evergreen, Blossom and Snowflakes

...snowfall, the past.

..smoke and ashes...

...wondering, fearing, doubting...

Wonderment!

Sun Down at Tooting Common

I took these at Tooting Common today, lovely to see such a beautiful winter sunset...

Winter Gold and Green

I took this one at morden wetlands today... if I wasn't feeling so awful, I would have loved to follow the river wandle up to carshalton...winter sunlight is a rarity these days...

Healing

Thoughts

Brimming with Defiance

I lost the first draft of this story earlier on today and I was really tempted to just abandon it, but decided to start writing again from scratch. I really like how this second version came out... This was inspired by a very interesting group of characters I came to know. Also I've incorporated lyrics from Placebo's 'Haemoglobin' and Ray Lamontagne's 'Empty.' Hope you like it...

Brimming with Defiance 

What do you know about heroin? Heroin. He-ruin. He-ruined me. What do you know about it? Hmm well, I must admit I don't know much. I just know what I've learnt from you, from watching you and listening to you and being around you. I don't know anything more than that- or anything less. Sweet lady, I came to see you once. I rung the bell. You shouted down at me from the balcony of the estate. Now my feet don't touch the ground. I held up the small paper bag. You came down, a baby clutched to your chest, your baby, and you offered me a ghostly smile, feint and unearthly. You took it, you took the bag and then you went back in, and with a map still in hand, I walked away. A rainbow appeared then, drops of water fell and sun beat down, the grey clouds slowly turned gold. I watched the sky- I watched the whole thing unfold. I know what I've seen. I know you live in another realm. Another world. I know there's pain and darkness where you live, but I know there's a freedom too. You live in a place, sweet lady, so different from the place they live. I felt a kinship with you, once or twice in four years. Actually, if I'm honest. I always felt a kinship with you, and the others too. What do I know? Now my feet don't touch the ground. I know nothing.

Mister, I know that your gait scared them, your dreadlocks thick and unkempt swayed, and you took those steps with your strong long legs and as you walked they moved away from you. Did you do that on purpose? And you dear, I know you always wore shades, whatever the weather, whatever the season, they hid your dark eyes, your weariness. I never learned to count my blessings. You said the world was too bright and so you hid behind those shades. Big shades they were, they covered most of face. I choose instead to dwell in my disasters. You were a woman of few words. Your son, he must have been about fifteen then. He had a resilience about him, a defiance, similar to yours. And Iz, you were so quiet, so sweet natured. You always asked me the price of strange things, like lipstick you would never wear or hair gel you would never use. I told you, but you didn't care. And you too sir, you sure asked a lot of questions- not about prices, about other things. Your best friend was your dog, he was your only friend, you said. You loved him. 'Leave her alone, she's just a normal girl!' I was hanging from a tree. Unaccustomed to such violence. She told me she couldn't describe what she felt then, when you defended her. You and the other roaming vagabonds. She felt a great sense of injustice. And pride to be there with you. Were you sitting on the stoop, that same one the others claimed as their own?

I don't know much. But I do know your dog barked a lot, he scared people off. They said we lost a lot of business because of him. You didn't care. You weren't scared of most things. The only thing you feared was what would become of you when you finally got clean, did you ever? He said you wouldn't. He said you couldn't. He said it was too hard. Was he telling the truth? Will I always feel this way? You otherworldly folk, they call you addicts. They call you lonely, they call you trouble, but much of the time they call you nothing because you're invisible to them. So empty, so estranged. You're not of this world see. Do you not agree? I've noticed over the years, that you have this untouchable quality about you, sometimes you wear this cloak and you're concealed. You rattle cages, you can't deal, with being ignored at times. Other times, most of the time, you don't care. You steal batteries and make-up, the security guards ignores you. I'll go fighting nail and teeth. You've never seen such perseverance. Gonna make you scared of me. Cause Haemoglobin is the key. Because he's afraid maybe, or maybe it's because he's your friend. You seem to make friends easily, when you're not wearing that cloak of yours. It smells, that cloak, do you know, it's considered incredibly ill-mannered to wear a cloak that smells. You don't care, neither do I. That's why you make friends, because you're real. You don't care what people say, you don't fear the way they stare at you, sometimes blankly, sometimes they look straight through.

There's a lot of things I don't understand. Why so many people lie. It's their hurt I hide that fuels the fire inside me. You keep yourself busy by trying to stay alive. It's tough business, staying alive. Some of you strive harder than others. Some of you just try to get through day by day, any way you can. You and I. We would talk sometimes about stuff. Sometimes he talked to you about football. You said you were waiting for the next fall; the rush, the pain, the ecstasy, they don't know life, the way we do, they don't see the things we see them. They don't know of the dirt, the glory, the freedom, the pain, the pain, the pain. I sleep anywhere. I wake up somewhere new each day, in a different park, in a seedy bar, in some random car. And of these cut-throat busted sunsets. These cold and damp quiet mornings, I have grown weary. You roam in packs sometimes. I can hear you coming, you're so loud. I saw some of your comrades by the river once, they looked just like the three of you. They goaded their dogs on to scare the swans, such fun to be a bum- sometimes! Ordinary people looked on in disgust, they made such a fuss to the police. Your clothes were matted and dirty and they smelt, but you were free. You live in a prison, you once told me- remember that time you missed it, you told me I'll never understand the hell of it. The cold sweats, the voices, the devil inside, you called it the devil. Was it the devil? Satan made you do it. We don't care. We don't fear, the things you do. But forever weary and on edge, you always seemed to be distracted- by what? This one time, I remember, you were in good spirits, I saw you in Greggs, you said hello darling, you alright? See, I've seen a side to you. I've seen this kindness in you, in all of you, a humble kindness, a quiet humility. A certain vulnerability.

Sometimes I wonder what you're thinking while you're waiting. How'd I ever end up here. Must be through some lack of kindness. I remember you hesitantly took the bottle of emerald elixir the first time I handed it to you, from that empty square in the door. I looked away and you consumed it. I don't know why. I could never watch. It felt wrong, it felt like you were telling the truth when you said you were less than human. Will I always feel this way? The demons that consume, we know nothing about them you said you woke up screaming. You said you could never forget, the images that would cross your mind day and night, all the bad things you'd seen in the underworld, on your commute to hell, in the basements, in the gutters, fettered- you stuttered. Mostly you stuttered. So empty, so estranged. Once you called me sister, did you ever call me friend? He sent you away. You said you wanted to get off it, you wanted to start new, for you. For your family and friends too. You said you were sick of disappointing them. As they drag me to my feet, I was filled with incoherence- Theories of conspiracy. The whole world wants my disappearance. And the way you'd greet each other there, the way you'd talk about Cellar Door. You made it sound like an alternate universe. The way you talked to each other about what was going down in your reality. See you're not here, you traverse the realms of reality and fiction. This addiction, has made you see clearly, you said- sometimes you bleed. You bleed at night, when you can't fight the demons inside. You found that you had enough. You wanted to end it, but the desire to keep living drove you on. It's their hurt I hide that fuels the fire inside me.

And that rush, sometimes it was worth it, worth living the way we do. Have you heard of the rule of thumb? Well that's what I try to go by. You don't know what life is like for us. Don't pretend you do. We live a lifetime of dying, a lifetime of trying, to be human again. And still its hard somehow to let go of my pain. But we slip up, we're fallible, we're in it together, when one slips, others follow. There's another side to it to you know, there's a glimmer of gold in the darkness, it's bright and vivid- it's the glimmer of kinship, of madness, of the glory of sadness, of being and being too far gone to care. I've said this so many times, but let me say it again. It's worth repeating. I don't care about the things you care about. I flout, around like a king in my castle. I live in the slums of this great city of London, the characters I meet you- mate you wouldn't believe, half the stories I could tell. I live. Like you I live. I give. I sieve through my brain. I try to remain true to myself, I try to remember who I was, now I'm a ghost, a shadow of my former self, but it wasn't always like this. I wasn't always like this. At the time they cut me free I was brimming with defiance. Doctors looking down on me. Breaking every law of science. My hairs gone grey, my skins become wrinkly, holes pierce this skin of mine, scars are engraved on my rough flesh, meshed together with wires and strings, I wish I could grow wings. And fly away from here. I can't, so on my knees, I beg and pray and cry to God above, I pray for respite. I pray for forgiveness. I pray for morphine. I pray for this pain to leave me. If through my cracked and dusted dime-store lips, I spoke these words out loud would no one hear me.

See that emerald elixir you hand me, it will get me through tonight- till tomorrow, it will do. I have only you for company, you who? You wouldn't understand. Why we bounce of walls, why we pounce on normal people. But you, you always had a smile on your face. We'd talked once about Banged up Abroad, and how you wish you could afford to start another life, a new one. I wish I could start from scratch, I'd give up my stash. You were always so kind to me, you made me feel normal and happy. I'm Irish, you know, we used to grow potatoes in the famine. I'm famished, even now. Sometimes you got mad, you all did- an inexplicable rage would overcome, a fire would burn inside, a wire snapped and you grappled. You said we didn't understand how it was, you felt smothered by life, by the rules, clock in clock out, forced to drink your green liquid in that room. Freedom, a distant dream, when you were reliant on a poison. You'd had enough! There's a lot of things that can kill a man. There's a lot of ways to die. Listen, some already did that walked beside me.

Still, you keep the strength to live life like you do. Everyday. Anyway, I was sitting in my room today, thinking about you all, with a sickness spreading through my bones, I began thinking about other sick people. And other people who are sick. See even though I don't get what it's like, I felt a kinship with you otherworldly folk- you lived in a prison you couldn't escape, with no one to save you and no where to run. Life had become, a string of disappointments and not just for you, but for everyone you knew. You said it once, so much hurt in your voice, you said, you thought you would die. Cry. Let it out. Cry. Cry a river of tears- look at me when you cry. My mother said, look at me when you cry and try to understand what you have done. Well, I looked my demons in the eyes. Laid bare my chest, said "Do your best, destroy me You see, I've been to hell and back so many times I must admit you kind of bore me"

You told me once, love exists, so does detachment  and it's comforting to know, that everywhere we go, we're never alone- in feeling alone. You zone out, so do I. There are so many worlds in this one world, so many lives are intertwined, so many stories are perfectly unaligned. I find it so sad, so strange- when I see you. When I bump into you, a ghost in the fog, in the rain, sometimes in a playground, on that same stoop, on a random bus, sometimes you travel in a troop. Now my feet don't touch the ground. And I smile at you, you probably don't notice. You probably don't care or remember who I am, I mean there's no way you can. How'd I ever end up here? A latent strain of colour blindness. But I smile. And I think for a while, I'm glad you're still around. See, I'm really bad at remembering names. I've forgotten most- old friends, work mates, but I remember all yours, I remember your unforgettable names. Nuno. Oz. Santos. Brazil. Howl. Locke. Mr Dread-Locke. Mr Yellow Vest. I invested a lot, into learning your names. What do I know about you? Nothing. I know nothing...

'...It will be happier.'

Eric Ravilious

I quite recently stumbled across the work of Eric Ravilious, (thanks to Robert Macfarlane's, The Old Ways). Ravilious's paintings, especially his South Downs landscapes are incredibly beautiful and his life story is even more so. I've taken the following excerpts from The Old Ways. I can't recommend this book enough, (especially to those of you interested in path-following) it's full of inspiration!

Ravilious was a watercolourist, engraver and muralist, one of the best known English artists of the 1930's, a follower of old paths and tracks, a votary of whiteness and remoteness, and a visionary of the everyday. Strangers called him Eric. Friends called him Ravilious. Close friends called him 'The Boy': a Peter-Panish nickname - a charm against ageing, a chrism against death. He was handsome: an angular face, large dark eyes a sloped nose, dark hair, long fingers always holding brush, pen or cigarette. He liked tennis, billiards, propellers, winter, the shadowlessness  of sea light, northerliness, ceramic, boxwood, crystal and ice. Fastidious but also impetuous, he had a habit of putting his head out of train windows and losing his hat to the wind. 

For most of Ravilious's life, the Downs satisfied his landscape needs. Especially in winter, when beech hangers stood out like ink strokes in a watercolour, they embodied his aesthetic ideal: crisp lines, the fall of pale light on pale land. The Downs, with their soft and equalizing sunlight, their pathways and their loneliness  primed Ravilious's imagination. They informed his whole outlook and way of painting. Through them, he grew to cherish certain landscape characteristics: crisp flowing lines, an aura of detachment from the lived world.  Ravilious always seemed to be slightly somewhere else, as if he lived a private life which did not completely coincide with material existence....' 

The Lake

I took this one of the lake at Mercers Country Park today in Surrey. I'm looking forward to going back another time when it's actually open. I sort of had to break in...

Impaled at the Sales

I've been working on another fairly demented monologue. I hope you enjoy this one- told by a young, highly delirious and misunderstood woman named Margo... 

Impaled at the Sales: It Cut Right Through

So look, let me tell how it happened. You're not going to believe it! It was insane. How I came, to find myself in this completely bizarre situation. It was bizarre, even for me. I can see, you're growing impatient, so I'll just get on with it. I'll get on with the story. I should warn you though, it gets a bit gory- in parts. Anyway I found myself at Westfield in Stratford on Boxing day. I don't really know why I was there, of course I never know why I'm anywhere. But I was there, that much is for sure, though I wasn't really there. I don't know. Let me explain, see I suffer from this condition, well that's was my doctor calls it, he calls it a condition. I'd describe it more as a default way of living- a state of unbeing. It's a mission, explaining it. It's 'real' name is depersonalisation. This condition, it's called depersonalisation. That's a chunky word right there, seven syllables, can you believe that? De-per-son-al-i-sa-tion. I'm a de-person and (alisation), that's a negative right? That's what they put in front of bad words like de-sturbed and de-luded and de-pressed. Hmm, I wonder does that mean I'm less than a person? Forget that, let me break it down for you, in other words depersonalisation- it means- being whacked, smacked, out of it, out of your head, kind of already dead, spaced... whatever you want to call it. It comes and goes. You're not going to get it. You're not going to understand. I don't even know why I'm bothering. Oh God, I did it again, didn't I? I went on off on one, a tangent. I'm a rampant blithering fool. Right, let me just get on with it, let me get on with my story. 

So there I was, caught in the crowds at Westfield on Boxing Day. It was noisy, totally and completely manic. I didn't panic. I never do. Nah, I just felt like Zach Braff at the beginning of Garden State, remember when he was sitting on the plane and the music played, that strange Hindi song, faraway and trippy, he just stared on, eyes half open, as everyone around him- the people, they all yelled and screamed and gasped, he showed no emotion, he was spaced out, somewhere else, but then he awoke. In the film, he woke up. But I didn't. In Stratfield, I mean Westford, I mean Westfield, see I just stayed that way- spaced out, displaced, where was I again? Ah yeah, the story. 

I think I was in Top Shop when it happened, or H&M. Honestly I wouldn't be able to tell the difference anyway. So there I was swaying from side to side in a sea of people; faceless, nameless people and then someone must have pushed me. I'm not talking a gentle push, I'm talking one great big violent mammoth push. Actually it must have been a whole crowd of people. Anyway I felt something go through me. I didn't feel it, because somehow I stopped feeling a long time ago, remember that depersonalisation stuff I was telling you about? I didn't feel it, but I sensed it. Something was wrong, and then I looked down. I looked down in horror (I think it was horror) at the metal hook protruding from my stomach, there was blood, it seeped all around- spreading and staining. I touched it, I touched the parts around the silver, red covered my hands. It was sticky- not nice. To be honest I couldn't remember much pain. Though I imagined it, I imagined it and then it became real. Well not really real, but dream-like real. The closest to real I get. That was the closest to pain I got. It came in waves, the pain, it was a searing pain. It leaped within and I just weeped in sheer terror, I think it was terror, it might just have been what I thought was terror but was really actually something completely different, maybe like relief or ecstasy or maybe it was nothingness, who knows. 

Anyway I remember thinking, and laughing in my head- gosh, what a sad and funny thing, to be here impaled at the sale! By a cold metallic rail, with a hook at its end (no less) and all around the people were still swaying, still moving and grabbing and pushing and pushing and pushing and saying, stuff. Was I the only casualty in that madness, that sadness, I thought? I'm still not sure. But oh it was so sad, the state of the world reflected in that small microcosm. That store. And see the metal slid right through my body, really the body was not mine. But it was still mine. Like, mine. And because of their greed I was just bleeding, bleed, bleed, bleed. Gosh, was it really that necessary, for those people, those nameless, faceless people, to be so unkind for an item of clothing, some fabric weaved together by a poor soul on a different continent, some different world, India or one of them other poor countries like Japan... I mean could that be real. I wonder what real is. Those people, were they being for real? Were they really so fervent and desperate and longing for material. And they call me mad. Gosh, how sad! How. Sad. (I know about sadness.) Sadness, I think, is also another word for depersonalisation. (A less-used one though).

So back to the story, there I was bleeding, in fact by this time a small pool of blood had gathered around my ankles but no one noticed me. Why would they? I don't know what happened then, I screamed, a loud screamed. I screamed out- 'consumers of the world, you have consumed me!' But grab and go! They did not slow, let me tell you that, they sure as heck did not slow. They took NO notice, the bleeding idiots, them crazed fools! Society has rules, you know. And leaving me hanging (literally) is a violation of one of those rules. The men and women (yes both) were all around, and there I was bound to that railing. I was stuck. I was bleeding. The bright lights were feeding into my delirium (another word, for what I've got, I'm sorry I forgot to tell you that one as well) Oh and the noise too, did I mention the noise? It was loud, so loud, that my screams couldn't be heard or fathomed. Dude, I was doomed. Completely! Anyway all this fuss, for some clothes, some cheap clothes and they are so cheap, in a dirty way too, I don't mean to judge I just mean to say, there was a time we didn't care about this stuff. A time before my time perhaps, my nan said. She said it wasn't like this back then, back in them old days. Good days they were, she said. I mean didn't they realise, all those one hundred thousand people in that silly store, that they all looked EXACTLY the same. How lame, is that??

So the pool of blood continued to build by my feet, it rose by a number of inches every few minutes. I was mildly aware, (and I didn't really care) that I was dying. I was dying in a store at the Boxing day sale in Westford, Stratfields. How weird, right? Anyway I sort of felt like a martyr, I thought well hey, at least my dying might change something, when someone does finally notice there's a piece of metal sticking out of my middle and a pool of blood at my feet. So I thought, till then I'll just keep still  Anyway in the end I realised it was just another one of my weird visions. Did I mention, I have visions sometimes? Anyway it was just another episode (a head trip). They come and go. Sort of like my condition. I wasn't martyred. I didn't die, not there, not in Forever 21, it was Forever 21 by the way. I found out afterwards. Ha, that would have been a tragic way to die (even though I'm sort of already dead). Errr, why am I telling you this?

Walk the Dog

The Jumping Bum

This monologue was inspired by the jumping man of Wimbledon. I really enjoyed writing this- hope you enjoy reading it! 

The Jumping Bum

People of this City, do you know me? Of course you do. People of the City, of course you do! I'm that abnormal jumping bum and every night I travel to a different street in this city and I do what I love to do. I do the only thing I know how to do. I jump. You see me jump. You laugh at me. You point too. You watch on. I jump. I jump because I am the jumping bum and because I love jumping. I love drinking whiskey too and eating spoonfuls of sugar, but I like jumping best. That boy needs therapy! Sir, I jump through time and reality and I often jump into different spheres of existing. I jump on your bed- every night when you're not there. I break into your house and I jump on your bed. Sometimes I take my shoes off, sometimes I don't. I won't apologise. 

People of this City, it's all in the jump. Its about how high you can go, how low you can drop- its about the satisfaction of the execution of that one perfect jump. It's the taste of that jump, it tastes so sweet. Oh if only you knew! It's about getting high- naturally, mentally, physically, astronomically and geologically and it's the opinion of the entire staff that Dexter is criminally insane. As I jump, sometimes I looks at your faces, ah the shock, as I quietly speed forwards, your heart jumps, your body follows and then I jump. It's knowing when to jump and what to jump over, you have to pick the right moment. Do you know people,  my raggedy and tangled ginger hair jumps with me, every strand of it, and this old bomber jacket, green and crusty jumps too, it sticks to my body, the muscles tighten and I jump. You're a nut! You're crazy in the coconut! It's that sublime satisfaction I receive; lucid and transitory, of being out the system- your system. Your system of not jumping- of taking strides, walking, maybe running. You're system doesn't allow for you to hop or leap or fart or jump. I do all of these. I take great pleasure from doing all of these. I am a jumper. I jump higher every time. I pounce like a tiger on all those unsuspecting benches and you gazelles look on, innocent human deer, doe-eyed afraid, afraid of jumping and afraid of someone who jumps. People, you are afraid of me! Admit it, you are afraid I will jump on you, or over you. My jumping scares you, it shakes you to the core, some of you at least, maybe a few. How can you be so easily rattled by me. It's just jumping. I'm only jumping. I'm the jumping bum, you see I jump- it's who I am. It's me. I jump I jump. That boy needs therapy, psychosomatic. That boy needs therapy, purely psychosomatic. That boy needs therapy. 

And as I do, jump that is, thousands of images cross this mind, as I leap, the skyscrapers leap too, they uproot, themselves, and the trees and we jump in a line. The pebble falls in and makes a splash, that clever pebble, it jumps into the water and the waters jump up too, millions of drops, they jump, I jump and the sea waves too- one great raging jump, I jump in rage and I when I jump, I see the children on the trampolines in far off countries jump, every coloured child jumps and I jump and I jump and as I jump I feel connected to all those other jumpers, to the droplets of water and the skyscraper in my mind, the rubble flies, it doesn't jump. It thumps you on the head. It knocks you to the ground. You're stumped non-jumper. And do you know, children, I sometimes think of Carlton and Will in Fresh Prince jumping on it. Jump on it. I jump, they jump too, and so do the kangaroos. And I like leaping and dropping and the jockeys on their horses they jump. He was white as a sheet. And he also made false teeth. I jump off ladders at nightfall and cars too- the alarm goes off, noise waves start jumping onwards and onwards and I run. I run and jump. The light jumps too sometimes, them neon lights and the street lights too, they refract, they jump. You people laugh at my jumping but sometimes you're scared too. Did I say that already? Did I say that you're scared I'll jump you. Jump. Life is about jumping. It's about making that jump. Stop being a lump, stop being a silly lump and jump, higher and higher. It feels good. Trust me. I would not lie to you people. I want you to jump once so you will understand what it means. That boy needs therapy, psychosomatic. What it means to jump. I want you to feel that rush you get as you zip down that street through the crowds and you make a jump, any jump and you think about the next one. 

I grab a red-bull or a can of coke or something on the way, nick it, it's in the pocket, that baggy pocket, if I drop it, I'll open the can and that liquid will jump, a frenzy of fizz will run down. Jumping, you see, it's all about building yourself up and letting yourself go. It's a metaphor for life you know. You know it is- my life, your life, the afterlife, the life of a star, the life of a tree. People, don't you know that trees jump, their wooden arms and legs in the wind, but its not the kind of jump you would understand. I jump because I'm happy. I jump because I'm free. I jump because I can. I jump when I need a wee. I have legs. I have strong legs that are good for jumping. They're made for jumping. Life is a series of jumps, fast and unpredictable. It's about breaking away from your oppressive rules, you know what I'm saying. A jump of joy, the decent of loneliness. I go, I go, I go- over bins, over benches, over ladders and over fences- over any obstacle big enough, small enough. Oh it's about the raggedness of the jump- that crazed jerky madness- freeze frame, I stop, I look, I go, I go, I go- like that one superhero. Did I mention it's about being high, mentally and physically high. I sigh, I die, I jump. I jump. I jump. I jump. That boy needs therapy, psychosomatic! I like the darkness, the traffic, the lights, I like the herds of white horses, galloping forwards, with me, thud, thud, thud. Oh it's the release, the freedom. It's passing over another hurdle. I've passed over so many. The challenge, the jump. I am a jumping bum- an Olympiad of sorts. Where are my medals? I bet you stole them!

My thoughts are jumping now, the moon I wonder is it drawing me in. I'm lunar, the tides are jumping, drawing closer, drawing further away. Oh and there goes another shooting stars, it jumps across the sky, a bounding leap and I jump with it and I am a shooting star and I will make it. I jump from the lifeboat to safety, away from death. I jump. There are no boundaries. Sir, care to tell me what better thing there is to do in life than jump? I've jumped all over. Can you think of anything else that talks, other than a person? Hello hello hello hello Ha ha ha ha ha !!!! I jump in my dreams when I sleep. The world jumps with me, one gigantic synchronised jump, seven billion people and we jump and we jump and we all dart and we all search and we all jump. You didn't understand a single word of that, did you?

I sing because I'm free.....

...hope floats...

Roadkill

Driving through....

I took these in Richmond Park earlier today....quite randomly ended up going with a friend....

London Wetland Centre

I went along to the London Wetland Centre today with a mate. It was a beautiful day, a bit strange being back though... I didn't realise how much I missed it- the walk through the woodlands, bird-watching in the observatory, hanging out in hides, the people! Ah I guess everything happens for a reason...

Just Another Day in London

A friend, Kim Y and I spent the day together before she headed back to Berlin. We wandered all around London, went to a few exhibitions and watched the sunset over the docklands from a cable car. It was a really beautiful day... Kim Yaged is an award winning writer and photographer and all round cool person! Def worth checking out her work: http://kimyaged.weebly.com/