Stockwell in the Rain

The rain falls incessantly, like tears from a sponge, light drizzle touches my lips. I seize an Evening Standard from the Underground to create a make-shift rain hat. The locals start drifting into the pub. Lone ranger drinkers sit close by and walk with that characteristic drunken brokeness that only seasoned pub beer-drinkers adopt over time: that kind of permanent bent forward toy clown stance or a robot with permanent malfunction.

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This entry was published on September 13, 2012 at 8:10 pm. It’s filed under London, people, Uncategorized and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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