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Originally posted on MEMOIRS OF A HUSK:
On dimly lit suburban streets, in the hours before dawn, it’s as silent as our world can be. Up in the lofty fir trees, knowing owls watch for prey. Foxes prowl through tangled brambles growing beyond neat garden fences. And six days a week, a bold human interloper…

Dark, Satanic Mills. Grim up north. Where there’s muck there’s brass. The stereotypes are many – and not very varied. Belching chimneys and squalid terraced houses. Dark, cobbled alleyways and clogs. Men in flat caps and women in shawls, their Lowry-stick-figures bent against the wind. Whippets. Ferrets. Coal holes. It’s persistent, the old image of […]

I’ll never look at a certain shape of pot again without thinking of urine. Made of plain clay, it’s taller than you’d imagine a ‘piss-pot’ would be – and narrower round the neck than at its widest point. It stood outside what was probably a hovel, because the pot was used to store urine until […]