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Lambs Conduit Street
(Published in Through the Woods, December 2005)
It is my favourite storm drain from which to hear the stories of the other London.
Last week, after a great storm, and long after midnight, there was a lull in the traffic. I spread-eagled myself face down across the thick, iron drain cover. The roar from the secret river filled my mind.
I glanced up: 'A. France, Funeral Directors' glowed darkly. Opposite the undertaker, in a sort of graphic-designer shop, there was a photograph of ex-President Clinton playing the trumpet. Outside the shop, a young man sucked a lollipop and tapped his lizard-skin looking creepers on the pavement.
The unspoilt top-half of the Georgian buildings seemed to slope into the street.
I heard sounds of water, like the splashing of a thousand dark fountains, flushing away the sins of London towards Coram Fields.
Where does this great spring come from? Is it a conduit of the old river Fleet that ran through 'Hole Bourne' and then into Fleet Street?
I pressed my ear closer to the drain and the grills branded a shape on my face. Miraculously, the street stayed empty. After twenty minutes of this therapy the pressures of the city dissolve. Sometimes I believe I hear a human scream or babblings down there.
From my back pocket, I took out 'The Magus', a card from the Aleister Crowley pack of tarot cards. I slid it between the grills of the drain and chanted the words of a Cabbalistic spell.
Two policemen turned the corner into Lambs Conduit Street. 'Hoy, you!'
My black clothes faded into the night as I sped away.
The left side of my face is still warm. I had put my ear to the seashell of the city.
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