From a small industrial strewn cul de sac. That’s where your memory starts flooding back. In bright vivid greys squinting to remember the little details in human form, composites and contradictions all taking place in the Waterloo Road landlords. Bedsitters remain with damp patches and bits of plastic from the closed down ceramics of this world.

Twitching New Yorkers and monks who chat about aluminium signs saying buy.

Saint Michel Gauffres with a picture of a tourist trap held up by constant prayer and a good website.

Exotic ghosts in the Club Jane on the write side of the river.

Bunk beds in the 70s with a cheap record player smelling of frayed electronic wire.

On the back side we see a cheap cologne figure living in a skip filled terraced house full of cuddly toys from amusement arcades care of Towyn or some other seaside jewel.

Dreaming of living for 3 months in a static caravan with leaded windows sealed with brown and blue masking tape.

Now squinting at the Bishop ,vampire and local guru named Jod from Wednesbury driving a reclaimed land rover blinking up at the double sunset and the and the golden girl of mother town hall.

That’s about it!

WDP