Dear Kensington High Street

Flat 3, Kensington Court, W8

Dear Kensington High Street,

Hello, it’s me, Flat Three, from those red-bricked Mansion Blocks ranked behind you. I’ve been meaning to drop you a line for the last 120 years but, you know how it is, life and all that.....

Today the mood gripped me, struck by a burning question I must ask. What on earth has become of us both?

The twenties and thirties were fine. You: the Grand Destination with your magnificent department stores in a Kensington of shabby gentility. A time of maiden aunts and struggling piano tutors living in dim, dusty rooms with their grandmothers’‘good’ Turkey carpets, defended by awnings to block out the sun.

The Misses Rose, my owners, would patter up to Derry and Toms for a new pair of summer gloves or a nice piece of fish for tea. I liked their respectability and orderliness, even though the smell of poached haddock did linger.

In the 50’s after the Misses Rose’ petals faded, the seeds were sown for your next great incarnation: Destination High Street Ken!! Biba, Hyper-Hyper and Kensington Market. You were hip. You were cool. You WERE swinging London.

Bambi-eyed Chelsea Girls with cloche hats and feather boas roamed your pavements. Fledgling rock stars with really bad hair bought fringed jackets and weighty metal chains for Top of The Pops or that gig at the LSE.

As for me, I got a young couple, who transformed me into an orgy of Bohemian excess: swathes of velvets and satins in peacock, magenta and emerald. Brass holders for candles and joss sticks littering the sitting room, their ash surrounding a rather disturbing Bhudda they bought on that trip to Goa.

Dazzled by it all, I throbbed to Led Zeppelin, watched as they rolled joints on Pink Floyd album covers and inhaled the heady smells.

But time passed and, caught up by respectability and children - though not necessarily in that order - they moved on and so did you.

And with the stroke of a bureaucrat’s pen and pressure from egregious landlords, you’ve switched from cool to corporate. Blink and you could be a High Street in Ispwich, or worse, Swindon.

Now I have someone ‘in banking.’ She strides up to you in charcoal LuLu Lemon yoga pants and virgin Nikes, past the scowling girls in Zara and the vacuum that is Currys, to buy a quilted gilet in ‘neutral’ from Uniqlo.

I’ve gone the same way: it’s called post minimalism. Like one of those pots of instant vegan porridge from Wholefoods, I’m now fifty shades of beige.

Where next? Well, I know history. I am history. Empires crumble, new conquerors arrive. When you and I have our next incarnation, I’ll write you again.

I hope it won’t take 120 years.

Tunnel Vision

“Take cover! They’re on top of us!” Buzz shrieks in my inner ear, the earpiece reverberating against my right eardrum. A cacophony of light, sound and smell explodes around me, a deadly maroon flower illuminating the night sky. I duck as shrapnel and debris descend upon me, a shower of warped metal, burning rubber and unidentifiable objects with the fragrance of melted flesh.

I seek refuge in the tunnels, the darkness still not my friend but a welcome sanctuary to the son-et-lumière show above ground. Damp fetid odours arise from the tunnel floor. I try not to analyse the stench, my stomach on the verge of retching. The tunnel is so low I am forced to crawl in order to move forward, my nose even closer to that malodorous dank floor.

Mud walls muffle the sickening world outside as I inch ahead. My heart thumps in my chest, the next beat possibly hard enough to break my ribs. I will it to calm, the way they’ve taught us during training. Breath has the power to bring body and mind in control, they told us.

A sharp tinkle catches my ear as I turn a bend. I freeze, hands and knees rooted to the ground, immovable, leaden. My pulse explodes, a metallic taste blossoming at the back of my throat.

Senses alert, I force my eyes to decipher the darkness, eyeballs straining in their sockets. An impenetrable wall of black stretches out in front of me, no hint of a shadow to indicate who or what might be ahead.

A shuffle somewhere to the left. Why isn’t Buzz here to guide me?! For a split second the tunnel ignites, a shooting star in the darkness. My eyes struggle with the contrast between light and dark. Before I can react, heat bursts just under the rim of my helmet, striking my eyebrow. Warm thickness trickles through my eyelashes towards my cheek. I blink. No pain. I blink again. Only numbness. Not sure I can trust my faculties.

Autopilot takes over. I slither forward on my stomach, throat constricting, heart bellowing, rifle in hand. The familiar words roll over in my mind, stony waves crashing in a turbulent ocean. The mantra offered to us during training: Feel the fear but do it anyway. My brain fixates on the first section. Feel the fear...feel the fear...

I know what I have to do. My pulse attacks my arteries as I ready the rifle. Feel the fear... The cold metal torturous against my cheek as I aim. Feel the fear... Darkness camouflaging the enemy. That tinkle again to my left. I inch the rifle in the direction of the sound, slow my breath. Do it anyway... I pull the trigger.

Suddenly the earpiece crackles into life, piercing through the chaos. My goggles deactivate. A solemn voice proclaims in my inner ear as harsh light annihilates the darkness: Game over.

Inspired by the writing prompt: “Feel the fear. Do it anyway.”

Black Ink - Part 1

“I’ll be fine on my own.”

I said it again to myself as I stood in front of the empty house. My aunt had invited me to stay at her new place - a modernist city-centre home which promised light and space and warmth, in contrast to the chaotic and fraught flatshare I was enduring. We’d spoken a few days earlier, and I’d admitted the strain I was under, not only due to the atmosphere in the flat, but also from the pressure of an impending work deadline. She insisted I book a train ticket to stay with her - I  could finish my work in calm comfort while she looked after me, and she would show me her newly completed, architect-designed house. I began to relax immediately after we spoke. 

At around midday, I arrived in a pretty part of the city where independent shops and restaurants perched along tree-lined streets, with pastel-coloured houses scattered in-between. I stepped into a small cobbled square removed from the throng of the main streets. It was dominated by stern-looking Victorian buildings, softened by the central greenery of the square. Most of the red-bricks were offices and one a school. An old grey church nestled in the far corner. Towards the back of the square, opposite the entrance, were two identical houses standing dazzlingly and defiantly modern - one of which belonged to my aunt. They were like two handsome watchmen, observing everyone who entered the square. 

As I approached her house, my aunt called - she’d been trying to reach me all morning and was incredibly sorry but her work trip had been extended - she wouldn’t be arriving until tomorrow. The keys were in a secure box in front of the house, and with the neighbours away, I could revel in tranquility, distraction-free.

Instead of feeling free, I felt dread. I liked solitude, but not isolation. I was fine being alone in busy places, aware of people around me, but this was not the same. Despite its city-centre location, this house felt secluded. Worse was the prospect of being by myself overnight which in recent months had begun to unnerve me. The last couple of times I’d been alone I’d had to leave the lights on and had barely slept. When I did drift off, I’d sensed an unfriendly presence and woken up abruptly, heart racing, hairs prickling, unable to move. It was perplexing to me as I’d been going to energy-healing workshops which had made me calm and positive during the day. I couldn’t understand why I’d be gripped by fear at night. Whatever the reason, I was careful to avoid spending the night on my own. The thought of doing so in an unfamiliar house, in a secluded square was unbearable. And here I was.

The tall, sleek front door opened smoothly - I jumped a little at the bleeping of the alarm and rushed to turn it off as instructed. Looking around the hallway, I was astounded. The floors were smooth, polished wood; the walls were a textured limestone wash. Huge jewel-coloured orbs hung from the ceiling, looking more like sculptures than lights, and a wide stone staircase with copper accents swept to the upper floors. My aunt was living in the pages of an interiors magazine.

I explored the rest of the house, mesmerised by impeccably designed luxury. I also needed to find the best place to work. I found the downstairs study. Its decor was dark - a walnut desk and bookshelves, walls in a deep olive green. The sunlight and cream rugs made the heavy colours seem opulent and inviting, but they might seem a bit gloomy and sinister after sundown. Next to the study was a small but cosy sitting room with large, squishy sofas facing a TV screen that filled an entire wall.

The main living room was up on the first floor -and I could see why. It had spectacular floor-to-ceiling windows allowing expansive views of the river, and a door leading out onto a balcony. 

My bedroom was also on the first floor. Decorated in soothing neutral tones, it had a king-size bed and dual-aspect windows. The main window framed a tree just outside it with a view of the square behind, and a side window looked across to the church. The desk underneath was a potential workstation, but it didn’t feel quite the right place to work, and I wondered if tombstones in the church garden would be a problem for me later on. 

My favourite room was back on the ground floor - the kitchen. Spanning the width of the house, the windows at either side allowed sunlight to spill in throughout the day. There was a walled garden at the back bursting with meadow flowers and blossoming trees. This kitchen was the place to work: it was light and bright, with a beautiful garden to gaze at. It also had supplies -a full fridge and an espresso machine. I opted for the large central island rather than the dining table and unpacked the materials from my case to get working.  

I’d been in my job for a year - in the Art and Design department of a book publisher. After a year of assisting on other people’s projects, I’d been given my first assignment to lead on - to create the book cover and campaign for a young adult novel called The Home that Didn’t Belong. The story was about a teenager who moves to a coastal village. He becomes obsessed with an impressive house that he passes on his way to and from school, simultaneously fascinated and unsettled as he discovers its secrets .

The author hadn’t given much detail about the house other than it was large, lavish and conspicuous. The editor specified the house should be desirable but with a hint of an edge - and should not under any circumstances resemble a gothic haunted house. I was keen to do the main illustration, however the editor didn’t like my initial concepts and suggested we should hire a freelance illustrator. Crushed but determined, I convinced her that wouldn’t be necessary. My next concept was a modern building with clean lines and lots of glass, using only black ink to give a stark and sombre feel, adding shading and shadows for extra eeriness. She was happier with this idea. But I wasn’t able to get the exterior of the house right, hence the panic as the deadline loomed. 

I set my pens out. I stopped. I took my phone and the house keys, I went out to the front and gazed upwards. This was it. My aunt’s house had a better style and structure than the houses I’d researched. It wasn’t palatial and was in the wrong environment, but I could adapt it. I took several photos and felt triumphant relief. Finally, a solution to my floundering project.

As I sipped a rich, warm coffee in the kitchen’s dappled afternoon light, I had a renewed sense of purpose, and even felt confident I’d be able to overcome the night fears. Earlier, I’d considered inviting one or both of my flatmates to stay with me - but as my anxiety retreated, I realised we needed space from each other. Our friendship had been strong not that long ago. 

The three of us had met during our final year at university at a wellbeing retreat. We became close and as we neared the end of our university days, we decided we would rent a place together after graduation. We had shared beliefs like manifesting our dreams and creating positive energy, and at first the house was calm, tidy, welcoming - happy. Until the dynamic started to shift. We irritated each other, the flat became chaotic and messy, everyone stopped making an effort, and we retreated away from each other. 

Abi, a friend from my course, had asked me not to go on that retreat; she said it could ‘invite in the wrong forces'. I laughed at her - it was the opposite I’d said - the retreat was to foster wellness and peace. We didn’t keep in touch but her words came back to me when hostility in the flat materialised. It seemed shrouded in bad energy - which aside from being ironic, was oppressive.  

I finished the coffee, opened the sketchpad, and began a new drawing. I kept the style of the house but made it much larger, setting it in huge landscaped gardens. I had a productive, uninterrupted couple of hours until my arm ached. As I placed the pen down it clinked on the hard marble and I sensed the empty stillness of the house descend around me.

Feel the Fear, Prince Charming, and Do It Anyway

He stands in front of the full-length mirror admiring his reflection. Trimmer than he can remember being for a while, with a suggestion of muscles rippling across his chest and upper arms, he lingers in his white vest and smart black trousers. A gold velvet stripe stretches up the sides. For this important occasion, he has been granted full stately pampering; sharp haircut, touch of colour for his greys, clean shave, facial.

He thinks, I deserve this. I am a Prince. I  always will be. It’s in my blood. They may say I am disgraced, but they don’t know me. My family has cut me off to save their spindly reputation. Nothing is the same with Mummy gone. They’ll come to their senses eventually. At least I have been allowed to take part tonight, to be seen in public again. Why do I care about their permission anyway? I am free. Royal and free!

He spreads out his arms and twirls a confident circle, returning to the image in the mirror without any hint of dizziness or imbalance. There is a knock on the door and an attendant enters. ‘Sir, we are nearly ready to call you in. Ten minutes. Is there anything you need?’ The word Sir grates on him. How he misses being addressed with the full formality of Your Royal -. He is nettled only momentarily though.

My, her smile is so warm and genuine. And those wide helpful eyes. Pools of innocence and trust. If I could have all my attendants back and they were like this, I would be truly happy again. They must have chosen this one carefully, for me!

‘Just a little spin, to calm my nerves.’ Without waiting for her to reply, he grabs her hand to pull her toward him, letting the door close. He lifts his arm to allow her to turn and skilfully draws her nearer. Another move is in store, but he pauses when he sees startlement in the wide eyes and realises he must let go. The attendant backs away with cheeks flushed and exits. ‘Ten minutes, Sir.’

On goes the uniform jacket, navy blue and resplendent with gold bands on the cuffs and rows of brass buttons. The wide shoulder boards have tassels that sway haphazardly at every movement. There is a loose thread dangling down and he picks at it. The jacket is scratchy. This is not the uniform he desperately wants to wear again. The collar suddenly feels tight and he runs his finger around his neck to open up more room. A bead of sweat forms from nowhere and trickles down the side of his face. He reaches for his phone and taps three times.

‘Darling, I don’t know if I can face the public again. I look silly in this outfit.’

‘We talked about this. You have nothing to fear. You have charisma. The public can’t get enough of it and that makes you special. Ridicule is nothing to be scared of. When this is over, you can leave and we’ll be together again, snuggling by the fire, all the richer for it. Remember, your Mother simply adored Strictly. Do it for her at least.’

There is a knock on the door. The attendant spots a missing detail, picks up a container from the dressing table and smears two lines of white war paint across the prince’s face. It is time. He leaves the room and marches down the corridor. The tall double doors yawn open before him, pulled by invisible helpers. Bright lights hit him and TV cameras swivel in his direction. The applause is deafening. ‘Please welcome, our next contestant, who will perform his dance to the song Prince Charming by Adam Ant, accompanied by the dazzling Sirena!’ The crowd gasps.

About this piece

It was influenced by news stories but the content and characters are entirely fictional. It has echoes of a fairytale. The aim was to reflect on a moment when a figure with a damaged reputation has to face their fears to try to find their place again, even if in a different form.