comfortably septembered, I
sit on a train staring out at back gardens in the Twickenham & Strawberry Hill area. The river passes beneath, then beneath again, in & out of view between curves of perfect west London sentimentality–houseboats & bridges, trees beginning to turn, curious slender tranches of what can only be described as parkland a house wide, nice money glimpsed through trees. The best of it is well-kept and shabby at the same time, something only west Londoners know how to do. & here they come, 4:30 in the afternoon, boarding the Waterloo train in their adult compromise with the clothes of teenage children, not so tight but the right colour to an angstrom.