A short story about the memories a beautiful summer can bring.
It’s only with hindsight that I realise what a ‘playground‘ London was for me from the mid-eighties (when becoming old enough to do as I pleased) to the late nineties; when changes started running so deep they were impossible to miss and/or ignore.
How positive reviews for self-publishing services and products are easily obtained without being genuine and neither an outright lie:
“I could be a writer with a growing reputation; I could be the ticket man at Fulham Broadway Station. What a waste . . . What a waste.” I used to walk past that ticket man made famous by Ian Dury’s lyrics on regular occasion. Going to and from Chelsea matches at Stamford Bridge. It […]
I used to scroll past half-decent posts without so much as a meh. Now it’s me doing the posting, I want the world to care.
