Khaki shorts, white trainers, white socks, a once-black hoodie.
He’s moving around the court really quickly and his feet keep bouncing, but he wallops the ball harder than he ought to, crossing the line time after time and throwing points to a much steadier opponent. It’s as if his momentum has nowhere to go, so he channels it into the swing of a silverblack racket to send the balls a little further than intended.
Green long-sleeved top, jeans, mucky trainers, tidy beard. Waiting at the collection point and distracting his young boys – twins – chatting and humming to them in their pram.
On the stereo "1234" pops on. The boys faces light up. "You like this, don’t you?!" and he starts singing along. Massive grins split their faces and one starts clapping.
Over the man’s shoulder, totally unaware, one of the men working the tills starting mouthing along with the ’Wooooah-oh-oh!’ – a round-bellied backing singer that only the twins and I can see.
Grey jeans, grey jumper, grey trainers, buzz-cut. He rolls a wheelbarrow full of rubble out from cover and into the rain. Fat drops of it start hitting him, and the grey starts to run.
The sweater is navy, with brown leather patches on his biceps. The jeans are blue, faded and old. The trainers stay grey, but it’s hard to tell if they really are grey or just so used to muck and mud that they’ll never be clean again.
The wheelbarrow is black, dented out of shape, and squeaking.
High in the water, empty of people and gutted of fixtures and fittings. The vessel is strapped tight to the towpath and only bobs a little as other narrowboats chug by.
The hull has been sanded raw. Still it’s stained with old paint and faded letters. Gluey acne daubs of waterproofing dry in the sun.
On top a rowboat is tarped down, as are few beautiful plants. The boat will be in bloom long before it’s fit for passengers.
Moored against a traditional narrowboat this one looks like graffiti. Bright, brilliant rain-clean colours: white paint that hurts to look at; candy-bright turquoise; a black that laps at the hull. Half the deck is taken up by a canopy seemingly made of pillows.
The crew and passengers have disembarked, presumably using Victoria Park to unfurl and stretch in chilly sunshine. It’s just as well; I find it impossible to picture people on board.
This one looks like a narrowboat from a postcard, or an ad for some middle-England retreat. Faded colours. Royal blue, yellow trim, splashes of rusty red for the deck. Troughs of just-alive plants surround the tiller and little puffs of smoke huff out of the stovepipe.
Strapped to the roof are sheets of wood, tell-tale signs of in-progress improvement. It’s low in the water, and inside the crew munch on bowls of steaming something.
Stubbier than many of the vessels on the canal, this one’s gloomy. The hull’s mostly black, peeling and dented, while the cabin is... the cabin’s super-weird actually. There’s a painting of a faceless woman reclining on outstretched hands. She’s either surfing their palms or being dragged under, I can’t make my mind up.
There are no windows and it’s on the other bank, a boxy little space for something that needs darkness. Right now it’s vacant.
Lycra to the calf, cloppy white trainers, silver logos and so much sweat. The pace and heat of his ride radiates off him.
The postie over the counter ambles off to get his delivery, and the rider leans back on his heels, staring into the distance. He turns his helmet slowly in his hands. He does it for a little while, huffing out hard.
What comes back is a light packet. The rider offers a quick thanks and rips it open, slipping the content – a book – into his water pocket.
Such a look of doziness as he swaps a sheaf of paper for a brown, nearly-square binder. Both live in a bulky brown briefcase that looks hard to heft about, especially in this weather.
Blue and tan gilet over a crumpled grey t-shirt and working jeans, all of it really baggy on an already broad man. Brown leather shoes. A gold Casio. Thinning blonde hair. His forearms and face are red from the sun.
A few pages in he starts to paw his face and yawn.
Eyes closed, he’s still and patient on the train as his two sons chatter either side of him. He leans to each as they speak, smiling with the jokes and intervening when it gets a little rowdy – a little cruel – but doing so warmly.
His eyes pop open every couple of stops, tracking his family’s journey around the city, using the jolt of the doors to stop him from drifting off. His daypack is filled by a coat, and occasionally he leans back into the draft of the air conditioning.
Light and bright floral dress, but an improbably thick coat on top. Almost wooly. This carriage seems to be one of the few chilly spots in the city, and every time the doors slide open you can feel the heat of heaving stations and sun on the tracks... but she’s got this purple coat on all the same. It makes my feet sweat to see it. She’s showing no sign though; paper-pale skin, and poise to the way she leafs through dense regulatory caselaw.
The coffee urn runs out with the cup half-full, and the server drops this ‘ugggghhhh’ that leeches the disappointment of a whole weekend out of her. I sort of want to give her shoulder a squeeze, but I grimace instead. Even then I manage to make things awkward; I’m pulling such a weird face when she looks up.
She’s relieved by her colleague, who beams at me and offers to make a filter by hand. I’m happy with that. I write about this to stop myself from eavesdropping on the police officers discussing a case behind me.
Jeans, pale pink jumper, sunglasses and a stern expression. He switches place from a small wall under a tree covered in blossom to a more isolated bench and gets wrapped up in his BlackBerry and a salad.
There’s a marshy pond fenced-off in front of him. It’s glistening in the sun – I say ’glistening’ because it’s still and gloopy and clogged with plants, there’s no sparkle to it – and the flies that call it home keep within the patch of light between the gate and the rubble.
Yawning. Watching bits of telly on his phone, the language... I’m embarrassed, I don’t recognise it. He’s in a Camden Council-issue boiler suit and hi-vis vest. I can’t imagine the uniform’s comfortable in the heat; it’s well worn, dirt ground in around the trousers. His feet are quite small, and his boots extremely clean.
Roll-up smouldering between his fingers. He’s shuffled into the only shade in this spot of the park, mostly so he can see his screen.
Shadow against the window. Most of the room’s height, so around six foot tall. Broad in the shoulders. All the other angles seem straight, from down here. Blocky, like an old suit. Close to the window, because there’s no highlighting from the room – just the deep black of a silhouette. Either leaning back onto the pane of glass or pressed up close to the window – I imagine a hand cupped to it, stopping the light. I find the latter preferable; the former triggers so many latent fears of falling.
She’s been pacing at the door to the other block for about twenty minutes. Intermittent texting, a few attempts to buzz up, a lot of huffed cheeks while she pats her phone against the flat of her palm.
She’s doing a weird circuit between the corner of the block, the corner of the tennis court and the path beside the leisure centre. She doesn’t ever wander too far in case her target slips by along some improbable route she’d otherwise overlooked.
They stop watching the netball game and lope away onto the main street.
On the left, one pushing a fat-tyred bike, resting a knee on the frame and heaving it forward a few metres, then again, then again.
On the right, sealed into tracksuit trousers and a thickly padded coat, all artificial sheen and baggy.
They expand to fill the available space – wide across the path, staring down oncomers, making no room. They go slow, and I can’t hear them talking to each other.
Hair tied back, munching on home-made lunch from her rucksack. It’s early evening. Her eyes are bagged by little purple shadows and her nose twitches with a sniff from time-to-time.
Purple trainers, black leggings, black gilet. Slow chewing, seemingly gazing at the netball game but actually focusing a little over their heads. Staring into air. The cheering doesn’t move her, and her jaw just works the bread and lettuce without enjoyment.
Thirty kids in dazzle caps and branded hi-vis bibs, waddling after a harassed teacher waving a small red flag. She hurries across the road.
The crossing light changes with just half the party on the other side, but the rest wave at the man driving the cement mixer stopped for them – he grins back and waits. The teacher leading turns and calls a few words of sharp German, and the last children dash over.
Her eyes do a scattered count and the second she’s satisfied she’s on her heel, heading away.
’Flh flh flh flh flh flh flh’ skipping rope whirling. Hair in a ponytail, headphones on. Staring forward. Close sportswear – black long-sleeve top and gym shorts – bold fluorescent trainers that beam as she jumps.
She’s the other side of the courtyard. No-one’s coming close. Behind her is the eye, and the river, and the traffic of the Embankment. I’m munching a homemade ham sarnie on my way past the MOD. Like everyone else my eyes are drawn to the bright yellow rope and the sound of ’flh flh flh flh flh flh flh’.
October 2014 | November 2014 | December 2014
Temple Studios | January 2015 | February 2015
March 2015 | April 2015 | May 2015
June 2016 | July 2016 | August 2016