Stumbling Out Of The Desert

Sorry I have been away so long, I lost my way near Holborn one night while concentrating a little to earnestly on the consumption of some fish and some chips and have been on some strange adventures amid the labyrinthine metropolis. There has, in effect, been a hiatus, an erasure, or cesura during which I am not exactly sure what has happened to me, though, now and then, brief episodes appear, looming up within my prevailing amnesia like islands of certainty, or at least, more fully formed images. I also misplaced my trusty espresso flask recently and this is another factor which means that I cannot claim to have been what I would call fully myself. But I am determined to keep you informed about the particular undercurrents and countercultural experiences to which I find myself witness and which I therefore feel responsible to impart or record for posterity, lest the commonly regarded surface of this city's existence be mistaken for its entirety -which I am sure, my more interesting friends and comrades will agree, is far from the case.

For now, I can only offer a brief greeting, like a man stumbling out of the desert into the environs of his home village, and assure you that I am alive, if not fully well and that I intend to continue offering you my observances and perspectives, albeit not fully formed or explicated. Suffice to say that I encountered, in Fitzrovia, an unexpected site of a Victorian church stuffed with scaffolding, causing the most delightful juxtapositions of design and technology spanning 150 years. On the same day I examined in some detail the work of the Irish sculptor Eva Rothschild who was showing, rather modestly, and not far from Fitz Mansions during the summer downtime for the Fitzrovia galleries. I was also thrust by a special duty out into the wild Western regions of Holland Park where I witnessed a middle aged woman carrying a transparent box of rocks, a homeless man singing a gibberish version of what sounded like a Japanese schoolgirl's song while clasping a beer can between grimy-sneakered feet and a woman clutching a mobile phone to her ear and exclaiming "God, is that the truth". Later, crossing grand Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens I saw numerous children writhing over the muddy bronze statue that there immortalises the fictional figure of Peter Pan, egged-on by mums who eagerly immortalised the idyllic holiday event using tiny digital cameras. I then saw various couples, sprawled here and there about the expansive grasslands, some of whom were unusually ugly English men gripping fast on to young Asian women as if some anti-gravitational force might at any moment whisk their angels back to heaven and leave them once again devoid of all charm and beauty.

Needless to say, much, much more have I seen and heard, but my present circumstances limit my abilities so that these brief images are all I can presently share with you. I hope they at least whet your appetite for more Roy-ish tales. Please do not neglect nor forget me as I soon hope to return to the full flow of my renowned literary force and regale you once once again by embellishing your own urban experience with the benefit of my own senses.