WELCOME TO ISSUE 100 OF LITRO
From the Editor
South London hasn’t always had the best rap: although it’s home to the South Bank, the Globe Theatre, London’s second cathedral (Southwark) and a number of museums and galleries including the Tate Modern, the outsider’s perception of it is often tainted by vague ideas of a tubeless wasteland prowled by hoodies exuding the faint perfume of Morley’s fried chicken.
So in this, our 100th issue, and our third to celebrate the four quarters of London – a city so vast and varied we’ve decided to devote nearly 50,000 words in total to exploring it – Litro is jumping on the train and going overground. The authors in this issue, who come from Dulwich, Peckham, !"##$%&'(%)*%#)"+"%),-.'/".)*0"1#2)3/(4)-3)'/")3$&/'3)(,)'/")3(-'/5)(-.)'(-.) takes us from a Wandsworth estate agents’ to a travelling circus in Battersea. 6"7+")&(')1$(%32)8-11#(&32)/(.3"3)*%#)9*'35):$11".32)1(+".32)#.$%:".3)*%#) survivors. We’ll show you sides of South London you’ve never seen before, plus the stories behind what you already know – and just to prove that living in the South doesn’t mean you have to write about nothing else, there’s also a tragicomic Western tale from Peckhambased writer Sam Mead, as well The End of the Line2)*%)";91-3$+"),-11<8(#$"#)09'$(%),.(=)1"&"%#*.>)4$%"< writer Malcolm Gluck.
Writing about what you know is advice handed out in short story classes '/")4(.1#)(+".5)8-')."*#$%&)*8(-')4/*')>(-) don’t know – that’s where the fun starts.
Katy Darby Editor November 2010
EditorinChief & Publisher, Eric Akoto
Editor, Katy Darby
Contributing Editor, Sophie Lewis
Online Editor, Laura Huxley
Events Editor, Alex James
Graphic Designer, Nicola Green
Litro is Sponsored by UK Trade and Investments
Cover artist: Stephen Farling, ‘Boucher: the back story’, currently showing at the Royal Academy of Arts, London, 10 November – 19 December 2010
Litro Magazine is London’s leading short story magazine. Please either keep your copy, pass it on for someone else to enjoy, or recycle it – we like to think of it as a small monthly book of short stories.
www.litro.co.uk
Contents: Assassins by Ralph Williams
Maxie Baby by Rob Ganley
Cat and Man by Miriam Burke
A Horse Named Peto by Sam Mead
How A Lion Smells by Neil Baker
The Baron’s Tumescence by Peter Browning
Survivor by Caroline England
The End of the Line by Malcolm Gluck
Events Listings by Alex James
This month on Litro.co.uk
!"#$%&!%'()#'&*($+,!#$%&'&()!(#*!+,-.+'-!%./01!+,)!&(! !"#$%"#$&'($!)&'($#*+,&'"(+$&"$)&&-+.$/&&#.$/0+(*1!2+$ !"#$3',4$3&506 -&(.+&/7$50!#$!22$!)&'($84&$80950$:'*;;*"<$(4*+$3&"(46 0)%12,$=3*2>$?20!105$,&"(*"'0+$8*(4$405$3'+*"<+$&"$ !22$(4*"<+$2*(05!5>6
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Assassins Ralph Williams
“
?7=)/".")'():$11)>(-.)@*'=*'"2A)'/$3)&->)3*$#)4$'/)/$3)&-%2) standing in my doorway, feet well spaced, and calm. I did my best to look unimpressed. I shrugged. I pulled an upsidedown smile. I nodded.
BC"73)%(')$%2A)?)3*$#D)BC"73)*')6*$'.(3"D)E$+")/$=)*8(-')'"%) =$%-'"3DA
BF-.")'/$%&DA
I shut the door in a pleasant, politely slow motion and went back '()0%$3/)39*%%$%&)'/")G.(G".'>)G.(&.*=="3)(%)HIJD)?%)*%)/(-.) I’d managed two episodes of Relocation, Relocation set in foreign capitals – Berlin and Budapest – and half a boring one of Grand Designs. A retired couple in Surrey were commissioning a Huf Haus that looked like a conservatory in their garden, not so grand really. I got up for another a bowl of cereal, then remembered 4")/*#)%()=$1:D)BK*="32A)?7#)*3:"#)=>)@*'=*'"2)BK*="32)&()'() 6*$'.(3"2)&"')=(.")=$1:2)$'73)>(-.)'-.%DA)K"3-32)F-%#*>)=(.%$%&) was a yawn. Apart from TV and the internet what was there to do? I walked back to the door and opened it.
BJ()>(-)4*%')*)9(,,"")(.)'"*)(.)3(="'/$%&)4/$1")>(-)4*$'LA)?) *3:"#)/$=D)C")4*3)3$''$%&)(%)'/")@((.2)/$3)8*9:)-G)*&*$%3')'/") wall, outstretched legs blocking the narrow stairs up to our dingy little slice of corridor. The painted walls had chipped, in sections, leaving pinky chunks of plaster exposed in a trail down to his head. His gun was gone, maybe in his rucksack.
BM(-)3-."L)?7+")&(')=>)(4%)'"*8*&32A)/")3*$#D)B?%)=>).-9:3*9:DA B!/")'/$%&)$3D)6"112)4")#(%7')/*+")*%>)=$1:2A)?)3*$#D)?')4*3) embarrassing really. James and I weren’t students any more, >"')/".")4")4".")$%)(-.).*=3/*9:1")@*')4$'/)*%)"=G'>),.$#&"D B!/*'73)0%"D)!/">7.")G"GG".=$%'DA
BN()G.(81"=)'/"%D)?711)8.$%&)>(-)3(=")/(')4*'".DA)?)'-.%"#)8*9:),(.) the kitchen, then reconsidered. That sounded like a faff. “Actually,
Maxie Baby
Rob Ganley
Max the bulldog started to rise. Charlie waited at the door and willed strength into his bowed legs. They shook and wobbled beneath him until he was up, a Zeppelin on toothpicks.
B!/*'73)$'2)O*;$")8*8>DA
Max looked proud and sheepish as Charlie pulled on her boots, signalling it was time for his walk.
BR(=")(%2)8(>2A)3/")3*$#2)9.(-9/$%&)*%#)G*''$%&)/".):%""3D)C") gathered his breath in sobs then started out towards her, his tortured, barrel body swaying from side to side. He crossed the kitchen with one break for air and stood at Charlie’s feet, head bowed.
B!/*'73)=>)8(>DA
In the halfminute it took, she had grabbed her bag and phone, scooped Leo from his high chair and slid him into the sling at /".)9/"3'D)R/*.1$")/"1#)'/")@*'73),.(%')#((.)(G"%),(.)/$=)*%#)/") waddled past with a glance up, tongue lolling and eyeballs rolled back.
BE((#)O*;$"DA
She crossed the corridor, pushed the down button and the old lift groaned then chimed. When the doors opened, Max lumbered inside. She pressed ‘Ground’ and stepped back. He turned to face Charlie, licked his pendulous jowls and gave a snort as the doors shut.
R/*.1$")*14*>3)'((:)'/"),(-.)@$&/'3)(,)3'*$.3)[)1$,'3)=*#")/".) hyperventilate, and the baby weight was taking forever to shift.
BZ(-%9>2)8(-%9>2)8(-%9"2A)3/")3*%&)$%'()X"(73)"*.D)?')'((:)/".)T-3') H\)3"9(%#3)'()."*9/)'/")&.(-%#)@((.)*%#)3Y-*')'()*)9.(-9/)*3)'/") lift shuddered to a standstill and its doors opened with a =‘ding’. Max lumbered to meet her, wagging not so much his tail as his hind quarters.
The three of them walked out into the bright sunlight and took their welltrodden route over a grassy hummock to the wood. Charlie
Margaret Atwood
Michael Holroyd Michael Morpurgo and Romesh Gunesekera
Membership of The Royal Society of Literature is open to all.
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Marilynne Robinson William Trevor
Cat and Man
Miriam Burke
She turns towards him in her sleep and he is buffeted by a squall of stale breath. ‘If I loved her, I would love her stale breeze‘, he says, sadly, to the self he has never stopped loving. He creeps out (,)8"#2)'*:"3)/$3).-9:3*9:),.(=)*8(+")'/")4*.#.(8"2)*%#)0113)$')4$'/) clothes he cannot see. Before he leaves the bedroom, he looks at the undulations of her sleeping body and sees it submerged beneath the tide of tears she will shed.
He hurries down the wooden stairs to the kitchen. He shoves a Camembert, tomatoes she has grown, and a bottle of wine in the rucksack. The coldeyed cat who has been impregnating his neighbours’ all night, observes him carefully – he is learning how to open the fridge. The cat would like the man’s big claws. The man would like the cat’s social life.
The man examines the rack of CDs in the living room. He takes only the ones he has given her. They had always given what they had wanted. He looks at the bookshelf for a while and turns away, without taking anything. He will be living, not reading. When he /*3)0%$3/"#)1$+$%&2)/")4$11)4.$'")*)8((:_)*)8((:)'/*')4(="%)4$11) love as they have loved him. He doesn’t look at the shelf of DVDs – he will be living, not watching.
He closes the front door quietly behind him. The cat bounds up the stairs and leaps into his mistress’s bed. She sits up, takes the dead mouse from her mouth, returns it to the cat, and says: ‘Well, thank the Goddess for that.’
The cat chews happily on the dead mouse while his mistress phones her friends to tell them the good news.
She hears the front door opening. He is back. She knows it must be raining – he hates getting wet.
Miriam Burke has a PHD in psychology and worked for many years as a consultant clinical psychologist in the NHS before becoming a fulltime writer. Her short stories have been published in anthologies and magazines, broadcast on radio, and a number of her stories have been awarded prizes.
A Horse Named Peto
Sam Mead
Image created by the author Sam Mead
There is a range of purple mountains, building and tumbling up */"*#5)'/">).$3")-G),.(=)'/")G1*$%)1$:")-%8."*:$%&)4*+"3)*%#)'/") snowcaps push themselves inside the motherly clouds as they drift past like sailing ships.
?).$#")'(4*.#3)$')*11)(%)=>)/(.3"5)/$3)%*=")$3)`"'(D)`"'()/*3)*) psychological issue that makes him unable to gallop when other horses are watching, I think. There are no other horses around now, but I choose to let Peto walk. The scene we are strolling into is 3()=*&%$09"%')'/*')'().-3/)4(-1#)3""=)1$:")*)4*3'")(,)(-.)">"3D)
How a Lion Smells
Neil Baker
J*#)4*3)*)8(>)*')'/")'$="2)T-3')0+")>"*.3)(1#D)?')4*3)'/")Z1$'Q2)8-') he stayed in Battersea. His mum wouldn’t send him to the country 4/"%)'/")('/".):$#3)1",'D)C$3)J*#)4*3)(,,)0&/'$%&2)3(="4/".")$%)
Africa. There must have been an older sister around, but he never mentions her when he tells his story, the one about the lion.
The details vary a little each time, especially now that he’s (1#D b33"%'$*11>2)$')&("3)1$:")'/$3_)O*>)cdHc)*%#)'/")E".=*%3)/*+") been bombing London since September. One night, a train winds its way through Battersea, Lambeth, the south of the city. This train carries a strange cargo: a circus. The tents, stalls, staff and animals – everything. A bomb hits the tracks. The train crashes, its carriages split open. The animals escape. They are rounded up quickly, but not the lion. Nobody will go near the lion.
So the lion makes its home in a bombsite behind Dad’s house. His mum won’t let him join the onlookers, but it doesn’t matter – he can see it all from his bedroom window. Sometimes he catches a glimpse of the lion, occasionally he hears it roar. But all the time he can smell it. The way he tells the story might be different each time, but it always ends the same: “I will never forget the smell of '/*')1$(%2A)/")3*>3D
Did it really happen? I was always sceptical. Why would there have been a circus in London during the Blitz? The city was being bombed every night. Who would have gone to the bloody circus? And there was rationing, too. How would they have fed the animals? And even if the part about the circus and the train crash was true, if a lion had escaped, they would have caught it or shot it. They wouldn’t have left it wandering around for a few days until ... well, what? The fate of the lion was never part of Dad’s story.
It used to annoy the hell out of me. The fact that he’d tell the same old story again and again. I did a little research into it once. I think maybe I was going to confront him. But I didn’t get anywhere. I just lost interest.
His problem is that, given the quiet life he’s led, he doesn’t have
The Baron’s Tumescence
Peter Browning
B!/")8$&&"3')3/$'2A)!/")Z*.(%)3/(-'32)B$3)$'73)/*.#1>)*)&1*=(-.) job going on a foreign assignment – when you’re a fucking *99(-%'*%']A
Simon shakes his head as the two weave and wend their way through the busy West End streets, down to The Black Swan for some grub. “The glamour’s hardly the shit – big or small – or you wouldn’t even be)*%)*99(-%'*%'DA
BZ-')X$8>*]A)!/")Z*.(%)";91*$=3D)B6/*'73)*)8"*%)9(-%'".)#($%&) &($%&)'()X$8>*L)?'73)$%)'/")*;$3)(,)"+$1]A)
BX$8>*73)%(')$%)'/")*;$3)(,)"+$12A)F$=(%)9(-%'".3D)P%#)'/">)34".+") either side of a large family of sari’d tourists caught up in the crowds, then surge on. “In fact Libya’s in the axis of good. It’s a great big natural gas sink. There’s pots of money to be had down '/"."D)M(-711)8")4(.:$%&),(.)(-.)8$&&"3')91$"%']A)
And they get to a tidy pedestrianized square of redbrick town houses that may never have been anything else but taverns – among them, The Black Swan. It’s a dark, lowceilinged pub scene. Rochelle the muscular barmaid is there to greet them. BJ$#)>(-)8"*')=")-G)(%)F*'-.#*>)%$&/'LA)3/")*3:3)!/")Z*.(%D)BR(3) ?)4*3)*11)9(+"."#)$%)8.-$3"3)4/"%)?)4(:")-GDA)
And The Baron reminds her about the indoor gymnastics tournament he staged in a lockin at the H.H., where she took a tumble competing in the headstand category. It’s the kind of 0;'-.")/"73)&($%&)'()=$332)!/")Z*.(%)";G1*$%32)4/"%)/"73)$%)X$8>*D B?'711)#()>(-)&((#)'()&"')*4*>2A)F$=(%)"%'/-3"3D)BE"')3(="),."3/) *$.2)8$')(,)*)'*%2)3*+")3(=")9*3/D)?'73)%(')'/*')8*#DA)!/")Z*.(%) 4*'9/"3)'.*%30;"#)*3)e(9/"11")'-.%3)'/")&1*33)4$'/)/$3)%*=")(%)$') -%#".)'/")'*GD)B?)="*%)*')1"*3')>(-7.")%(')&($%&)8*9:)'()6(:$%&DA)
The two head over to the only free table in the house. “No, without *)3/*#(4)(,)*)#(-8'2)'/")(%1>)3/$')/*3)&(')'()8")'/*')X$8>*)$3)#.>DA “Dry?A))
“Yes, they don’t allow booze. Not even in the hotels. It’s one /-%#."#)G".9"%')#"3".'DA)
BZ<8<8<8-'2A)!/")Z*.(%73)8(''(=)1$G)3'*.'3)'()4(881"2)B4/*')(%) earth do they do)*11)#*>LA
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B6/*')*8(-')#-'>),.""L)?)4*3)1((:$%&),(.4*.#)'()#-'>),.""]A)
“No Baron, I’m afraid they have zero tolerance for all forms of the hard stuff, taxed or untaxed. It’s completely banned. For cultural *%#)."1$&$(-3)."*3(%3DA
Locanda Ottoemezzo
!"#"$"%&'()*+',"-.+**. /01201"34"56% %*7"8!89":;9"!!88
Survivor Caroline England
I hadn’t ever really looked at the old man before he lay on the pavement in the September sun, his head cushioned by blood. C"7#)*14*>3)8""%)'/".")'/(-&/2)$%)=>)(,09")8-$1#$%&2)4/$9/)4*3) also his home, a shadow of bones which appeared each morning with transparent hands to scrape up the post and pale misty eyes to examine each envelope. It was only later that I took an interest in the scatter of mail in the communal hallway. But hardly anything ever arrived for him, just an occasional bill, not the tissue of an airmail my imagination had prescribed.
?)/*#)G(GG"#)$%'()=>)(,09")(%)*)F-%#*>)=(.%$%&5)%()*GG($%'="%'3) '/*')#*>2)"+"%),(.)'/")*,@-"%')*%#),*="#)4/(),."Y-"%'"#)=>) rooms on Welbeck Street with a variety of cosmetic ailments from warts to wrinkles. I had, for some months now, left a shiny 81*9:)/"*+>)X")R."-3"')3(-G)'-.""%)*')'/")(,09"2)*%#)=>)G*."%'3) were visiting that evening, on their way home from Dolly’s funeral in Florida. And for a reason I could not quite fathom, it seemed inordinately important that the soup tureen be used for the occasion, even though it involved an hour on the train and the tube from my beautiful empty home in the suburbs to the City. Perhaps $')4*3)8"9*-3")J*%$"1)/*#)8(-&/')$'),(.)="5)G"./*G3)?)4*%'"#) him there when my parents arrived, in spirit, if not in person.
BJ(11>)4*3)4$'/)=")$%)'/")9*=G2A)=>)=('/".)/*#)."3G(%#"#) quietly, when Stephanie and I had noisily expressed our surprise that Mum and Dad were travelling all that way for a second cousin’s funeral, one that Mum didn’t appear to particularly like.
Stephanie and I had looked at each other and fallen silent, hopeful, yet fearful, that Mum might elaborate on a subject never discussed.
The threads of the past we knew about had been imparted by Dolly herself when she visited, just the once, when we were teenagers. Z-')O-=)3*$#)%('/$%&),-.'/".5)T-3')'/*'),*=$1$*.)81$%:2),(11(4"#)8>) *)3=$1"D)B!/"."73)3'$11)3(=")9*:"5)?)/(G")>(-)&$.13)*."%7')(%)*)#$"']A
The tureen was heavy and though the brightly coloured thick paper
The End of the Line
Malcolm Gluck
It is a pleasant morning. I have eaten a substantial breakfast of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs with my Earl Grey. In three hours, all being well, my lover Henri(etta)will throw herself into my arms at Euston – well, a discreet brushing of lips and cheeks will ensue at least.
Even when the sun shines, as now, as the train slips out of the place, Manchester is dreary: I’m glad to be shot of it. Economic necessity forced me to fetch up there. I had been engaged for the Friday and Saturday at the city’s Wine & Cheese Festival, managing the stand on the produce of Lombardy because I am a wine writer with a grasp of rudimentary Italian who also knows from which end of a cow cheese originates (James Joyce called cheese the corpse of milk and it’s a considerable metaphor). This advantage over my fellow booze hacks was evident from the oiks on other stands – given over to Spain, Germany, Portugal and so on. Dull monoglots were in charge there and it showed.
God, I hate wine writers. Their dominant trait is envy. Their major obsession is the source of the next free trip abroad or, the really bedraggled ones, free lunch. Maddened by their mediocrity, impoverished by lack of imagination, eaten up with sloth and ennui, condemned to a poverty the prickliness of which is only occasionally softened by those donated airline meals and retailerfunded fodder, their lives, as selfproclaimed wine experts, are precarious, delusional, comicoperettaish: hardly prize catches ,(.)'/")&.$=)."*G".)*&*$%3')4/(3")0%*1)."9:(%$%&)'/">)#$+$#")'/"$.) lives, as they degrade their livers, into ineffectual instalments of egosatiation. You think me harsh? Not at all. In describing them I describe myself.
Standard class intercity rail fare brought us to Manchester (apart from two hacks who lived locally) and standard fare, alas, sustained us, though I did manage a slapup meal, at someone else’s expense, (%)'/")0.3')%$&/'D)O>)*99(==(#*'$(%)*')'/")&/*3'1>)e(3"''$)/('"1) did not run to a funded breakfast as the Lombards didn’t go in for ,""#$%&)=")*3)4"11)*3)G*>$%&),(.)'/")8"#D)6$%"L)6$%")@(4"#),.""1>) of course, as much as we could gargle down our gullets. Naturally, being the preeminent Bacchic scribe on display I got the feast
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Litro Events, November 2010
Among this month’s feast of events we see the best of British !"#$%&'&%()*#&+,)-./0!$-#1)%/,#%.#")2/")%.#)3"-%)%&4#)&+)3'#)(#$"-5)
There’s live beats, storytelling and literarythemed champagne %$-%&+,6)&+)7/'#4*#"8-)"/9+1:9;)*()<=#>$+1#")?$4#-5
Until December 4, The British Art Show. Only %$@&+,);=$!#)/+!#)#'#"()3'#)(#$"-):)$+)#>.&*&%&/+)/2)%.#)4/-%)$4*&%&/9-) $+1)&+A9#+%&$=)!/+%#4;/"$"()B"&%&-.)$"%6)=$9+!.#-)&+)7/%%&+,.$45)<==) artworks included have been produced since 2005 and encompass short -%/"&#-6);$&+%&+,6)&+-%$==$%&/+6);./%/,"$;.(6)3=46)'&1#/)$+1);#"2/"4$+!#5)
See: www.britishartshow.co.uk
11 November 2010, ‘Champagne Train’, Orient C>;"#--5)D/;#29==()%.#"#8==)*#)+/)49"1#"-)/+)%.&-6)/+#)/2)E/+1/+8-)4/-%) =9>9"&/9-)1&+&+,)#>;#"&#+!#-5)F9#-%-)0&==)*#)%$@#+)/+)$)1#=&!&/9-)G/9"+#()/2) !9=&+$"()1#=&,.%-)$=/+,)0&%.)$)-#=#!%&/+)/2)E$9"#+%:H#""&#")!.$4;$,+#-6)&+) %.#).$9+%)/2)/+#)/2)<,$%.$)I."&-%-)4/-%)2$4/9-)%."&==#"-5)J.#)2//1)$+1) wine menu has been crafted by Executive Chef de Cuisine, Matthew Smith, $+1)E$9"#+%:H#""&#"8-)K$-%#")/2)L&+#6)M$'&1)D#-@#%.5)N##O))HYPERLINK “http://www.orientexpress.com/” www.orientexpress.com 12 – 21 November, The London Jazz Festival, '$"&/9-)'#+9#-5)P#$%9"&+,)$)4&>)/2);"#4&#"#-6)+#0)!/44&--&/+-)$+1) !/==$*/"$%&/+-)0&%.)0/"=1:2$4/9-)-%$"-)$+1)#4#",&+,)%$=#+%5)J.#)#'#+%) has more performances in more venues than any other live event in the !$;&%$=6)$=/+,)0&%.)%.#)P#-%&'$=8-)"#+/0+#1)#19!$%&/+);"/,"$44#)$+1) &%-)?$QQ)2/")P"##)-%"$+16)%/)!"#$%#)%.#)RS8-)*&,,#-%)&+%#"+$%&/+$=)G$QQ) 2#-%&'$=6)0&%.)D$4&1)M"$@#);#"2/"4&+,)$%)B$=%&!)"#-%$9"$+%5)N##O)) www. balticrestaurant.co.uk See also: www.londonjazzfestival.org.uk
12 – 14 November, Greenwich International Early K9-&!)P#-%&'$=)$+1)C>.&*&%&/+)TUVU6)W=1)X/($=)7$'$=)I/==#,#5)<)=&'#=() 4&>)/2)#>.&*&%&/+)$+1);#"2/"4$+!#)2#$%9"&+,)Y9$"%#%)7#0)F#+#"$%&/+6) I$2Z)K/Q$"%6)%.#)P&%Q0&==&$4)N%"&+,)Y9$"%#%6)X$!.#=)B"/0+6)%.#)F/=1#+) E("#)/2)R")$+1)49!.)4/"#5)J.#)W=1)X/($=)7$'$=)I/==#,#)0&==)!/4#)$=&'#) 0&%.)%.#)-/9+1-)/2)$==)%.&+,-)#$"=()49-&!)19"&+,)%.#)+&+%.)F"##+0&!.) [+%#"+$%&/+$=)C$"=()K9-&!)P#-%&'$=)\)C>.&*&%&/+5)<!"/--)%."##)1$(-6) a diverse programme of performance featuring acclaimed musicians will run alongside the world’s largest and most esteemed early music #>.&*&%/"-)2$&"5)N##O) www.oldroyalnavalcollege.org
20 November, Wam Bam, Café De Paris, W1D ]BE5))C>;#"&#+!#)$+)#>;=/-&'#)!/!@%$&=)/2)!/4#1(6)=&'#)-%/"(:%#==&+,) $+16)*9"=#-^9#)$%)E/+1/+8-)4/-%);"#-%&,&/9-)'$"&#%()+&,.%)./-%#1)*()%.#) -#+-$%&/+$=)E$1()<=#>5)S&!@:-%$"%&+,)0&%.)2"##)*9"=#-^9#)%$-%#")!=$--#-) *()%.#)RS8-)3"-%)-!.//=)/2)*9"=#-^9#6)B9"=#-^9#)B$*(6)%.&-)4/+%.8-) L$4)B$4)2#$%9"#-)%.#)'#='#%:!=$1)!/4#1&!)19/)X$(4/+1)$+1)K") J&4;@&+-6)*9"=#-^9#)*#$9%()B#%-()X/-#6)$+1)'/!$=)'/(#9"-)N!$=#-)/2)%.#) R+#>;#!%#15)N##O)www.wambamclub.com
Until 22 November, Museum of London, near B$"*&!$+6)M&,&%$=)H./%/)I=$--5)N&,+)9;)2/")%.&-).$+1-:/+)&+%"/19!%/"() course in digital photography, based in the new stateoftheart #:E#$"+&+,)N%91&/)$%)%.#)K9-#94)/2)E/+1/+5)_/9)0&==)=#$"+)./0)%/) use functions of your digital camera and how to capture meaning in a ;./%/,"$;.)%."/9,.)!/4;/-&%&/+6)!/+%#+%)$+1)9-#)/2)=&,.%5)J.#)2/!9-)/2) %.&-)!/9"-#)&-)%.#)I&%()/2)E/+1/+)`)&%-)*9&=1&+,-6)$"!.&%#!%9"#6)49-#94-) $+1)#'#+%-5)N##O) !!!"#$%&$#'(')*')"'+,"$-.
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“God, I hate wine writers. Their dominant trait is envy. Their major obsession is the source of the next free trip abroad or, the really bedraggled ones, free lunch. Maddened by their mediocrity...” Malcolm Gluck, The End of the line, page 36