I went to Kensington the other day
A short story in 269 words
I went to Kensington the other day – clutching a screenshot with instructions for a bus route that sounded convoluted.
I had time to walk. So I did.
Commuter sun split itself between elegant mews buildings and coffee shops that no longer sell milk from anything but nuts.
And I walked. Heavy tote bag on shoulder, palm gripping a visual of Google Maps. 21-year old me craning to see out past 40-year old me, both of us marvelling at the wide pavements we genuinely thought we’d live on one day, if only we worked hard enough.
I smirk at her. (At me). Then kindly place a finger on her nose and smile.
I turn a corner onto Such And Such Gardens and side step over scooters as taut mothers with pleased-with-themselves lips wave straight-haired children off to Independent school.
White town houses flank my left side. I gawk at their pillars, tall like supermodel legs, holding up three floors of fancy shoes and generational wealth.
Google Maps says 18-minutes walk. But I’m forced to pause at every street corner waiting for processions of Range Rover to pass.
‘Gosh, the streets here are so beautiful’, I think.
All petal strewn and immaculate. Save for the dustbin men heaving tampon boxes and used anxiety meds into open mouthed trucks.
The Thames finally comes into view, all silt floor and far away tide. Beautiful ship lap house boats tilt under the weight of faceless landlords cruelly forcing rates that no one can afford.
I step over an army of green rectangular boxes. Over broken hope and impossibility squashed deep in every recycling bin.
I literally love every single word you write. Please get that novel out asap! Or at least tease us with some more perfectly put words x
tdiamond02uk@yahoo.co.uk
21st September 2023
Comment-
Apropos Emily Eades’s “I went to Kensington” post-
Wow!
I’m a seventy-two year old man, crusty and vitriolic. So how is it possible for me to instantly step into the shoes of a forty-year old lady re-living her twenty-one year old impressions?
Excuse me, Ms Eades, but that’s ME walking down those streets and gazing naively at the hoi polloi! That’s me dreaming exactly the same dreams, and eventually tasting the same nausea! Every goddamned Range Rover had an angry looking (but VERY attractive) woman with two pristine children (Reginald and Samantha?) and a tongue-lolling Red Setter panting out the window- “GET OUT OF MY EFFIN’ WAY!
How come it’s exactly the same now as it was in 1970?
And who gave you this high-powered vision to be able to recreate social conditions in swinging London that PRECISELY mirror my own uncertain observations of fifty-three years ago, when I was sweet and ignorant?
Huh?
I tell you, this Eades person had better be watched closely, or she’ll be writing caustic novels in no time.
Charlotte Bronte eat your heart out!
Humph!
Shouldn’t ought to be allowed!
Women like this should know their place!
I blame society, meself!
Why can’t we have a bit of old fashioned morality about the place, eh?
Yours Truly,
Mr Angry Person (Birmingham-On-Toast)