by Dave McGowan
I step out of the front door onto Endell Street and look up; the sky is the colour of old off-white underpants and the trees, which have shed all but a few yellow leaves are festooned with their curious carob-like pods. A white van driver fails to slow down in time and there is a bang and a loud scraping sound as his sump hits the speed ramp. I turn left and left again onto Short’s Gardens.
by Dave McGowan
The cosmos
Seen from outside
Unimaginable heat
Unthinkably cold
Everything within expanding
Zoom in
by Dave McGowan
Late night drinking and stitched up arses.
by Dave McGowan
A few years ago, I experimented with living part of the week outside of London and rented a flat in Hastings so my girlfriend and I could spend long weekends by the sea. I’ve got a few mates down there but not enough to provide a rich and varied social life. I found myself bowling about a bit. Sticking my nose into dusty corners.
By Dave McGowan
The Big House
A tale of co-operative country life.
I’m staying at a Co-operative Community in the middle of Devon. It’s not in a town, village or hamlet. It’s on a hairpin bend in the road and it is where it is and that is its name, Beech Hill. You can find it listed in Diggers and Dreamers, the UK Directory of Co-operative Communities. They’ve got a massive, labyrinthine 18th century farmhouse with seven acres of land. The house is broken up into large rooms and apartments and is occupied by 20 odd hard working happy hippies and their progeny. I know it may be difficult to imagine happy hippies but they’ve got extensive vegetable gardens, sheep that they’re not going to kill and eat, a reed bed sewage system and a swimming pool. (Continued)
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Shoes that have shaped Dave’s life.
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