Sam Redlark

image generated by Craiyon There are placenames that you might otherwise never stumble across, were you not inclining your gaze upward towards a fragment of the London Underground map, so as to avoid the shuttered stare of the passenger who is sitting opposite. These outlying suburbs have been drawn into the sprawl of the capital. On paper at least, they are now part and parcel of London. Public opinion, particularly on the issue of where one neighbourhood ends and another begins, moves more slowly than urban development, advancing at a generational pace. To some, these far-flung locales will never be a part of London. They are simply too far away, in terms of time and distance, from the hustle and bustle of the West End. Speaking their names will often conjure bucolic rural imagery that belongs in the first half of the 20th century, if not the one before it. Often these places occupy diversionary loops, or short branches, at the distant ends of one of the more far-reaching London Unde

image generated by Starryai Back in 2015, Graham Rattan sent me a draft copy of his letter of resignation. For years he had worked as a senior engineer for the Chipling racing team. His grasp of engine mechanics had been an instrumental and inspirational force in the design of many of their bikes. He is the man who is ultimately responsible for those parkway engines that, for better or worse, have come to dominate the sport. They remain illegal on the roads and have to be assembled from their component parts at the racing circuits – a task that requires herculean levels of focus, and that can take upwards of 12 hours. He asked me whether he had struck the right tone. In hindsight, I believe that his true intention in showing me the letter, was less concerned with ensuring a diplomatic exit, and was more about letting me know that our personal relationship was likely to change in the future. He was correct in that regard – our relationship has changed - but not in the way that he though

image generated by Craiyon Engagement Banquet at Aijtimaeat Kathira Market , painted in situ, in cold oils, by George Groves, in 1824, recently sold at Christie's for £5million and change, plus commission at both ends. The following day I met the painting's former owner, Mark Beaudoin. (It was not a chance meeting – we live in the same neighbourhood and consistently bump into each other). He parted with the artwork out of financial necessity in 2008 for the measly sum of £750,000. The painting depicts the engagement dinner of Miss Violet Auld - a distant grandmother of Beaudoin's, many generations removed, on his mother's side of the family. Also reluctantly present is her husband to be, Douglas Edden. His apparent regret at taking matters as far as they had gone is overlooked by the artist, who specialised in painting mass gatherings as if they were landscapes. The banquet, as the title of the painting states, was held on at Aijtimaeat Kathira (Many Meetings), once a t

image generated by Craiyon “Go to the walk-in closet in Pat's bedroom,” instructed nurse Yettin. “On one of the box shelves, on the left, you will find the hard case that contains her mineral collection. Bring it back here.” I was almost out of the room when I heard the motors in Pat Orris-Bird's all-terrain wheelchair whir into life. I glanced backwards. The chair was  lumbering hesitantly across the unruly brown shagpile towards me. Pat was strapped securely into the seat. Her lightly-bobbing head was slumped against one of the padded side rests. Her vacant eyes were emptier than the painted-on gaze of a shop-floor mannequin. Her dry mouth hung open, slightly more so on one side. Earlier in the day, a visiting beautician, named Ivy, had carefully painted the lips pink. Her left hand was draped over a small joystick at the end of the armrest. Her fingers twitched with currents of muscle memory as if they were in the process of being possessed. Alerted by the sound of the chair