Batakliev's Bloc

...and through the hazy glow of Christmas lights, I saw the sandy-coloured torso of a mother fox, curled up in my garden. Her gaze ablaze, Her silken fur aglisten with ornaments of morning dew. ‪#‎ fairytalesofsouthlondon‬

Sun-blessed at last, I am finishing my creamy Bulgarian yoghurt with honey and walnut, served in a hand-crafted brown clay pot by a butch waitress that takes no prisoners. A monotonous dribble of Greek music in the background, masked by the friendly roar of the sea. How do you do, Black Sea? It's been a long time. I am no longer a wild-haired teenager but you...you are unchanged. You are as grandiosely handsome as ever. Lusty, lion mane-like waves are now crescendoing in front of me, before they dissolve into the colourless foamy brine that comes to greet my pale toes. A couple of overweight German tourists have ventured into the water, in spite of the warning red flag, secretly hoping to be beaten till they bleed by the puffy-eyed lifeguard. I think I just caught a familiar smell that only the trained native nose can discern. A fine fugitive blend of seaweed and fire-roasted peppers. The smell of late summer at the Black Sea.  The fake fairytale castles and tacky fish f

Uncontrollable post-exercise hunger has demanded that I stop for a quick dinner at what seems like a workman's cafe in Waterloo. Everyone around me is a mate and everyone is having fish 'n' chips. I am having salmon and salad. "That looks great, mate", sputters the bloke from the table semi-detached from mine, deep-fried breadcrumbs falling down his chin. "I wish I'd ordered that too!". All the ot her mates nod in unanimous agreement and we exchange a heartfelt smile. Then they resume their chat and breadcrumb banter about sex change, two fat women they've seen on YouTube and faces they would like to smash. This place is real. After I swallow the last limp lettuce leaf on my plate, I shall wholeheartedly confirm that there is nowhere else I'd rather be on a sultry Tuesday night like tonight.

Here comes the mindless morning stare at the wall. Body shifts into a being. Caffeine bleeds into it, as the man-made heat permeates the room gently, evenly. Gooseflesh bathrobed. Pleasurably. An Apparition of Affirmation. Was it me or alchemy? Light. Trickles. Through. Here comes the dawn. Newer. Truer. Brighter.

Saturday January 11th, 7 AM. Through my train window, I aloofly observe the contours of the emerging day, the early morning's dark complexion. I'm on my way to Haworth, Yorkshire for the night to visit some old friends: Anne, Emily, and Charlotte Brontë. I am terribly excited, all Heathcliff-ed and Eyre-ed, Kindle loaded with the goods, heart fuelled by appetite for mystery and adventure. I shall now resume my aloof observation as we are about to pass Doncaster. For a short period, shorter than the blink of an eye, the complexion of the morning turned golden yellow as the winter sun shone over birch trees and haystacks. Yet now we are approaching Leeds and the clouds are gathering together in a bleak ensemble. Train guard Carrie is urging me to take ALL my belongings with me before I leave the vehicle. It's time to board another train to a place I can't pronounce. *****  The sun did persevere after all and blessed my arrival in Haworth ("Best