Back in the late 1980s, I developed a really bad habit...
What were you doing in 1989? Rioting with the students
in Paris? Standing up to tanks in China, pulling down
walls in Berlin? Or were you like me? Pretending to be
happy in a festering, dilapidated, hopelessly hopeless
squat in the depths of Brixton with the oddest collection
of people that ever sat down and complained that
somebody else had taken the last of the milk?
And there I would have stayed if I hadn't poked my nose
into somewhere it really shouldn't have been poked.
Somewhere I had no reason or right to be. And found
something that really shouldn't have been there either.
A clash of cultures, a rancid old house, a stash of hippies
and one very cute dog.
It was bound to end in tears.