I remember vaguely, a moment of tension when I threatened a Maoist student I had just met with death (over some minor intellectual matter). And the emptiness of Pimlico, cold Pimlico. All the houses with the curtains drawn and the lights on. And a tower-block named De Quincey House (but the Northwest Passage is nowhere to be found). And this Turkish homeless guy who was facing deportation and who gave me a cigarette and told me about his girlfriend in Istanbul who wouldn’t be happy to see him return. And a drunken teenage boy dressed like a cowboy vomiting by an old Mini Cooper. And some girls, who sounded Australian, off their heads, wearing skirts too short for January. And Victoria Station. And then, somehow, home. Cold and snotty, but I managed to get home, to my epicentre of existence, to my spot of anonymity in this inhumane city.
By Fernando Sdrigotti.