Camden High Street, about 5pm, last Saturday....
I am walking towards the markets, I can't remember why, in the permanent dusk of an English December afternoon, with about 57 million other people, a sea of black, goth teenagers everywhere....I feel like every molecule of this place is repelling me, every brick, every post, every grim face, every puddle in the mis-shapen bitumen mess outside my ex-council flat....
....for a moment there I was considering some sort of sniper action against all those goths, down there at the lock, maybe from up top of that little castle thing above Starbucks, with a slug gun or maybe a paintball rifle shooting white paintballs, have that constant depressing river of blackshirts all running for cover, falling backwards over the bridge and into the canal....
....and the really crazy thing is, despite the obvious overwhelming sense of conformism, I don't actually have anything particular against goths....
I GOTTA GET OUT OF HERE! I NEED A HOLIDAY!
....but that's all right....most people I know here get to a certain time limit with this place before they have to run off and hang somewhere else for a bit, which is thankfully pretty easy. Mine's about two months, so I'm well past that now, but my escape route is all planned, another Aussie orphan Christmas in Paris...loads of mates, cheese and baguettes, red wine, general merriment skipping down all those gorgeous boulevards - it's not baking Aussie summer Chrissie with family (something I'll be missing quite a lot), but it's about the next best thing I can imagine....
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