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

It took days to get it all off. I scrubbed and soaked but I could still see it hidden in the grooves of my fingertips, stuck behind my fingernails, refusing to leave.  I don't use black ink anymore, in fact I’ve stopped drawing entirely, and I’ve yet to return to Fescue House. If I hadn’t been by myself maybe nothing would have happened there, but it would have only happened somewhere else. I know that now. It wasn’t the black ink, the drawing, or even the house. It was me. I invited something in. 

It happened at my aunt’s house. She’d asked me to stay at her modernist city-centre home - which promised light and space and warmth, in contrast to the chaotic and fraught flat-share I was enduring. We’d spoken on the phone and I’d told her my woes. It wasn’t just the caustic atmosphere in the flat that was troubling me, but I was also feeling the pressure of a 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 could show off her newly finished, architect-designed home - Fescue House. I booked the train ticket straight away.

A couple of days after we’d spoken, I stepped into Hollydun Place, a small cobbled square in the heart of the city. It was a sunny, lively spring day but I was struck by how still and dark the square was, as if the sun and the throng of the city couldn't reach into it. The square was largely made up of stern-looking Victorian red-brick buildings, most of which 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 in concrete, timber and black-framed glass. One of them belonged to my aunt. They were like handsome watchmen observing all who entered the square. It felt as though they were watching me as I approached. 

As I walked up to Fescue House, my phone began to ring. It was my aunt - she’d been trying to reach me all morning, she wasn’t at home, and she was incredibly sorry but her work trip had been extended. She wouldn’t arrive until the next day. The spare keys were in a secure box in front of the house, and with the neighbours away she said I could revel in the tranquility.

I lingered outside the house for a few minutes. I liked solitude but not isolation. I was fine being alone provided the bustle of life was going on around me, and despite its city-centre location, this house felt strangely remote. The worst part - the thing I dreaded most - was staying the night by myself. This never used to bother me, but during the few times I’d been alone in recent months, I’d found it difficult to sleep and had to leave the lamp on all night. If I did manage to drift off, I’d sensed a presence and woken up abruptly, heart racing, skin prickling, unable to move. I’d found it strange; at the time I was ensconced in holistic wellness and energy healing classes, which kept me calm and positive most of the time, and so I couldn’t understand where the fear of being alone at night had sprung from. Whatever the reason, I was careful to avoid it. Yet there I was, about to stay in a large unfamiliar house, in a secluded square, on my own.  

The sleek front door opened smoothly and I stood in the hallway, taking in the space. Huge jewel-coloured orbs hung from the double-height ceiling, more like sculptures than lights. The floors were in smooth stone, the walls a textured lime-wash and a wide stone staircase with panels of wood and copper swept to the upper floors. I explored the rest of the house while also searching for the best place to work. On the ground floor was a dining room, a small sitting room with a gigantic TV, a study, and the kitchen.

The main living room was up on the first floor - when I entered it I could see why. It had spectacular floor-to-ceiling windows giving expansive views of the river and sky, and had a door leading out onto a long balcony, where the sun fell freely. My bedroom was also on the first floor. Decorated in soothing neutral tones, it was spacious with dual-aspect windows. There was a tree outside the main window with a view of the stolid square behind it, and the side window looked across to the church with ancient grey tombstones protruding from its grassy yard. 

I decided the kitchen was the place. Spanning the length of the house, windows on three sides allowed light to spill in throughout the day. There was a walled garden at the back, bursting with meadow flowers and blossoming trees. It also had supplies - a full fridge and an espresso machine. I opted for the wide central island rather than the table and unpacked my materials and laptop. I took out my obsidian crystal point and placed it on the counter  to bring good energy. 

I worked as a designer at a large book publisher and after assisting on projects for a while, I’d been given my first assignment to lead on. It was to design the artwork for a young adult novel called The Home that Didn’t Belong. The story was about a teenager who moves to a small village. As she struggles to fit in, she becomes obsessed with an impressive house and the enigmatic family that live there. 

The author hadn’t provided much detail about the house, but it was supposed to be large, lavish and conspicuous. Callie, the editor, said it should look desirable but have a hint of an edge - and under no circumstances should it resemble a gothic haunted mansion. I was a good illustrator and decided I would draw the cover image. Callie didn’t like my initial concepts however, and suggested we should hire a freelance illustrator. I convinced her not to and fortunately she liked my next idea; a modern building with clean lines and lots of glass. I suggested using Indian ink - black ink only - to provide a sombre, eerie mood. She was happier with this idea. But I struggled. I couldn’t get the exterior of the house quite how I wanted it, unable to capture the right look and feel, and so the pressure increased as the deadline neared. 

I prepared the area and got out my latest illustration wondering how I could improve it. Then stopped. I took my phone and the house keys and went outside to the small front garden with its trees, and planters full of wispy grass. I stood back and gazed up. This was it. My aunt’s house was a much better design than any of the houses I’d researched. It wasn’t quite palatial as such, and was in the wrong setting, but I could adapt it. 

After taking a few photos, I paused. I’d felt movement at the nape of my neck as if someone had walked behind me and I lowered my phone. I could sense that I was being watched. I turned slightly and started. In my peripheral vision I glimpsed a still figure standing in the front garden under one of the trees, just a few metres away from me.

“Hello,” I shouted, and pivoted round to see who was there. I let out a small scream. Through the branches of the tree I could see a tall, thin person standing upright and staring directly at me, not moving, not speaking. I then realised what it was and shook my head, smiling. It was a statue - an iron man with no hair or clothes, a simple human-like sculpture. I continued taking photos of the house and returned inside, waving to the statue before closing the door. I’d found a solution to my floundering project.

I finished a rich warm coffee in the kitchen’s dappled afternoon light, tapped the chakra beads on my wrist, opened the sketchpad and began a new drawing. Starting with pencil then moving to ink, I kept to the style of Fescue House, expanded it and set it within huge landscaped gardens. I worked continually for a couple of hours until my arm ached. When I placed the pen down it clinked on the hard marble and I sensed the empty stillness of the house descend around me.



Read Part 2 in June 2026

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.