Af­ter­noons Go Nowhere & Im­per­fect Knowl­edge

The London Magazine - - CONTENTS - Sheenagh Pugh

But­ter hard­ens in the dish overnight: the tourist of­fice keeps win­ter hours.

The year’s last cruise ship has left the har­bour and the voices of Italy, New York, Ja­pan,

are heard no more in the street. Af­ter­noons go nowhere. Dark falls early, finds folk

up lad­ders, spades in earth, work un­fin­ished. Ra­di­a­tors cough into life:

plumbers and sweeps can’t find light enough to get round, clear out the de­bris.

Some­how no one is ever quite ready for this, as if they half hoped

time too would let things slide, be up some lad­der fin­ish­ing what started late.

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