Blackberry season

Through the hunting ground of this fortnight’s rapist, past the well-attended shrine to yesterday’s drowning victim (would you get into a weed-ridden canal to help someone clearly not in his right mind?), and past the nearby park as one drunk pummelled another into unconsciousness (Mr Blobby policemen pretending to run): all of this carrying a large bag leaking red fluid, and no one stopped me.

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  1. I had a couple of delish berries on my walk home from work yesterday. I’ll definitely forage for more during the summer hols.

    That story about the drowned boy really upset me. If it’s true that they refused to enter the canal then I wonder what the police are actually for. Apart from searching boys for weed, of course.

    Enjoy Hackney. Lovely spot. We’ll be slumming it in Empordà.

  2. Blackberries big and watery and bitter as hell here. I envy you, even though I know everything will be swept away in a tide of blood on 24S.

    A gent from the flats overlooking the scene said the boy had been off his rocker for a couple of days and appeared to want to die, and given all the stupid shit they have to carry a copper would probably sink straight to the bottom, but summink ain’t right.

    Anyway, I got my human head home unharassed.

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