In a bid to get some energy into my sluggish winter body I have taken to experimenting with psycho-geography. Not in a big way because I’m not sure I fully understand it. But I’ve set off in the opposite direction to where the crowds are generally heading, plunging into side-streets that lead to uninviting warehouses where fruit and veg get distributed from. Gloomy places with shutter doors locked against the afternoon light: the loading of the trucks is an early morning business. Dirty cabbage leaves lie in the gutters along with the smear of orange or strawberry. Should anyone see you round here they look you up and down and you feel like a trespasser.
Sometimes I achieve the effect of getting lost. I’m in the city where I work and have absolutely no idea where I am. Here is a flash of sunshine and the air feels white and cold. There are flats on both side of the road. They’re white and clean with the orange stripe of a balcony. A woman in a summer dress stands on her balcony and smokes. She hasn’t seen me. She has black hair and a white comb set in her hair. Someone on the opposite side shakes out a white rug as if sending a signal. Dust puffs into the air. I could be anywhere until I turn down an alley that leads to the docks.
A red ferry sits on the brown-green water. A ghostly turret with dead flies and cobwebs in its windows sits on top of a long white building that might have once been a hotel. And this must have been the place where John and Yoko tried to get to get to Holland or France. The place where the man in the mac sent the both of them back.