Because I have an insatiable appetite for books and because I'm moving house imminently I packed up a pile of books I'd been sent over the past few months to review and I went down to Brixton.
I like Brixton; it is very much maligned. I've been going there regularly for about 12 years and never had any grief off anyone. I've seen crackheads bottling each other in the face, but they tend to leave me alone, unless I'm buying crack which, invariably, I am not. I can't even drink a beer these days without feeling a bit wahey.
Anyway, I went to Bookmongers (pictured) on Coldharbour Lane and I traded all these flashy contemporary fiction novels with pretty lurid covers and - sadly - shelf lives no longer than a cream cake, for a bunch of books on fishing and a book by that fella off the telly, Johnny Kingdom.
Did I mention I was writing a book about fishing? Well, it's kind of about fishing. Sort of not really about fishing. It's more about friendship actually. And getting arrested. And cutting my feet open. And drugs. And love. And especially about water.
But not really about fishing.
I love to fish, but I live in the most densely populated and most concreted part of the country, so I tend to daydream about it instead.
After I'd got my fishing books I bought a salt-fish patty, a pair of jeans for £6, talked to a girl about Mumia Abu-Jamal and then I came and wrote this.
I'd say more on the matter but my arms are stiff and hurting today.
It's all that imaginary fishing, I suppose.
Boring PS - There are some clips of me reading poetry and prose on Youtube. You can view them here.
1 comment:
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