This is the view from the industrial estate in Hemel Hempstead. Its misty bleakness conjures up one of the many apocalyptic films with several severed and stumbling zombies rather than a town within the commuter belt. This feels, to me, like a place a story could unfold.
I look for these places unknowingly and they creep up to me when I expect it least. Sitting on the upper deck of a bus or taking a short cut, a path off a path.
I find them in the pockets of London I am still surprised to find, gaps between the buildings, where buddleia have taken over as the main inhabitant. Or if I venture out my from my front door before the sun is fully up, the road and pavement which have been claimed as the foxes’ playground; they run past me unafraid, almost questioning my right to be there.
I store these places away, the smell of them, what the sky happened to be doing that day and these details lie forgotten and discarded, almost.
Until they surprise me, reappearing on the screen in front of me, piece by piece and word by word.