Every night I walk out of Brixton Tube Station to be confronted with a thrum of activity. It’s different every night. One night there are people from the Comedy Club handing out flyers and cracking jokes with people who clearly just want to get home. The next it’s the Socialist Party handing out copies of the Socialist Worker telling us how the Government is swindling us out of millions of pounds for it’s capitalist ideals. Another night it’s a lone street preacher declaring the way to salvation. Yet another it’s a group of Rastafari just banging out beats on drums.
Whatever time of day, whatever day of the week there is always an impossible crowd outside Brixton Tube Station, always a scrum for the bus, always a salt and pepper mix of people, young and old, and a buzz of languages and dialects and accents like I’ve never heard before.
I was discussing with one of the editors on my placement how, when he lived in Brixton, he used to while away hours trying to work out who the heroine addicts were and who the crack addicts were. He reckoned he had it down. All I know is that on the 100 metre walk from the Tube to the bus stop I can smell dope and KFC, mingling in a slightly nauseating but hunger inducing combination.
It has energy. And now the days are lighter it’s even better. I love it!