Kings Road SW10

Thursday, 1:15pm

As I follow the shifting edges of these new territories, my courses change frequently and this is the basis of all my navigation about London. Having been swept through Brixton to Battersea as if a wave of apathy had decided my movements, I at last hit upon the sticking point of the easterly end of the Kings road in Chelsea. What stopped me in my tracks was an unfamiliar odour emanating from the Royal Court theatre, as if a mass of rotting corpses had been laid out in a final stage show for the residents of this benighted area who formed its final, unknowing troupe. A signal had been laid in this enclave which carved out a channel, by means of the wind, all the way down to the intersection with Edith Grove, which is known as World's End.

The scent was evidently the way in which the residents had chosen to create an exclusion zone, and it was indeed a strategy which I had failed to see before; before long no doubt the entire South West of London will be at it so as not to lose out on territorial advantages. In order to penetrate this zone with my sense of self intact, I decided to clear a path through the odour by urinating as I went, like a pissing Ariadne. Failure to do so might lead me into being incorporated against my wishes into this enclave of society which, to all my knowledge, might be bordering on savage.

Everything however seemed business as usual. The endless shop faces seemed one long advertisement for itself, a zoetrope for all the people walking up and down, reminding them of some protective sheath between them and the outside worlds of Fulham and Belgravia; dark countries. At one of the central piazzas I was suddenly swamped in the pungent scent of urine, spraying from a fountain next to the Saatchi Gallery gelateria. After several minutes of unconsciousness I came round, with an altered perception on things. I felt as though I wanted to belong here. I caught my reflection in the window and suddenly felt inadequate, losing my nomadic self to the self-consiousness of the social climber. I wet myself at these horrifying thoughts, and the odour I recall so well shook me from my reverie, and thus I plodded on to see where this zone would lead.

Unable to urinate no more, I managed to make it as far as the Cineworld Cinema on Old Church street before the convergent lines drove me back. The titles of the films that people are watching here are extremely unusual - I could barely make them out from the far side of the road however, so I am not entirely sure whether my transcription is correct: "I Was Forced To Eat My Husband And Defecate On His Corpse", rated PG, was the feature attraction at 3:15, followed by "Shitcunt" at 7:30. The film times were both in the A.M.


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