This is marginal land: fields of strung wire, of treadless tyres in ditches, fridges dead on their backs, and starving ponies cropping the mud. But the public has paid its money and it wants results.A sea-green sky: lamps blossoming white. The dead won't be coaxed and they won't be coerced. You don't want them and you can't send them back. Nights when you look down from the stage and see closed stupid faces.
There are nights when you don't want to do it, but you have to do it anyway. Teatime in Enfield, night falling on Potter's Bar. Four o'clock: light sinking over the orbital road. The motorway, its wastes looping London: the margin's scrub grass flaring orange in the lights, and the leaves of the poisoned shrubs striped yellow-green like a cantaloupe melon.
OneTravelling: the dank oily days after Christmas.
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