Red brick terraces on Heath Hurst Road - An ivy-smothered street sign for Keats Grove (man & nature seem better aligned here than in any other part of London) - Lines of wrought iron guttering & street lamps - Keats House, where the poet lived from 1818-1820.
By my own admission (and hopefully a few of yours too), I tend to lack a sense of perspective at the best of times. It is symptomatic, not only of the century we inhabit but also of city life that tends to engulf and consume: in the early morning commute nose-to-nose on the Victoria Line, the mid-afternoon queue for long awaited coffee, or the extra woollen brim of my bobble hat that I inch down over my ears in futile resistance to the wind wandering back from the supermarket. Considering the aforementioned wind, it could be said that the seasons tend to envelop us too, especially that of winter which encompasses and encourages more patterns than its summertime sister. I often wake up to street lamps still lit their unearthly orange from the night before and fall into habits of brewing daily mugs of hot honey and lemon to ward off inevitable illness, of drawing the curtains early & clambering into bed with a bowl of steaming pasta. While some of these are welcome home comforts, winter can weigh heavily, particularly the month of January, one universally dedicated to the nursing of empty purses and pot bellies.
By my own admission (and hopefully a few of yours too), I tend to lack a sense of perspective at the best of times. It is symptomatic, not only of the century we inhabit but also of city life that tends to engulf and consume: in the early morning commute nose-to-nose on the Victoria Line, the mid-afternoon queue for long awaited coffee, or the extra woollen brim of my bobble hat that I inch down over my ears in futile resistance to the wind wandering back from the supermarket. Considering the aforementioned wind, it could be said that the seasons tend to envelop us too, especially that of winter which encompasses and encourages more patterns than its summertime sister. I often wake up to street lamps still lit their unearthly orange from the night before and fall into habits of brewing daily mugs of hot honey and lemon to ward off inevitable illness, of drawing the curtains early & clambering into bed with a bowl of steaming pasta. While some of these are welcome home comforts, winter can weigh heavily, particularly the month of January, one universally dedicated to the nursing of empty purses and pot bellies.
This, I think, is why it is more important than ever to remember to find the time to appreciate a moment of calm and clarity as the nights draw in - flipping through an outdated newspaper with damp hair after a hot shower, contentedly seasoning a simmering sauce on the stove-top (Liv Purvis' puttanesca is a personal favourite) or, as was last Saturday's case, a soggy excursion on Hampstead Heath with cold hands and warm smiles.
- Another moss-speckled street sign on South End Road - Some of my favourite houses on South Hill Park, backing onto the duck pond, polka dotted with windows & balconies - Lunch & effective dog-luring tool...!
These photographs actually compile two instances of escape from the daily drudgery although in different weathers. One was a sunny, blue sky lunch break having overslept & dressed in all of my patterns in a futile attempt to look more awake, one that smelt like the oranges I peeled into my palms and was mostly spent scribbling shopping lists and attempting to lure dogs into my path with pretzel crumbs (pleasingly successful) The other was a more monochrome affair with my boyfriend's parents that was characterised by our breath hanging in front of our faces as we climbed Hampstead Hill, tip-toeing to see the tops of seven storey terraces, counting chimneys and read the blue plaques that pepper every street.
These photographs actually compile two instances of escape from the daily drudgery although in different weathers. One was a sunny, blue sky lunch break having overslept & dressed in all of my patterns in a futile attempt to look more awake, one that smelt like the oranges I peeled into my palms and was mostly spent scribbling shopping lists and attempting to lure dogs into my path with pretzel crumbs (pleasingly successful) The other was a more monochrome affair with my boyfriend's parents that was characterised by our breath hanging in front of our faces as we climbed Hampstead Hill, tip-toeing to see the tops of seven storey terraces, counting chimneys and read the blue plaques that pepper every street.
Lensecap nestled in my sheepskin pocket, I delighted in photographing my favourite things about this little pocked of London of which I am so fond - the patterns of the drainpipes, the rich tomato hue of the red brick, the old-fashioned street signs assembled from Scrabble tiles and the sense of history & days gone by that makes me feel obliged to dress up when headed north on the overground, as if Vita Sackville-West herself might be just around the duck pond, scattering crumbs.
Certainly after today's trials & tribulations (running late to work, falling up the stairs on the tube & being reduced to tears by a rude customer, phew) a few decisive measures (finally getting around to ordering my postgraduate prospectus, tentatively booking time off of work) have helped to stave off the negativity of which I am so familiar.
Chin up & speak soon - O.
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