Patrick Hamilton stared out from an orangery or boat house over there, gin-sipping, sleeping it off under the willows. He traded the thunder of the Euston Road for upriver plenty but he carried the glassware along. I’ve read stories of people visiting and finding themselves legless before lunch; a three bottles a day man. Didn’t stop him writing better pages than most of the between-wars lot. I stamp along the bank, trying to imagine a life there, sun rooms and staff and something shiny and fast waiting on the driveway. It doesn’t seem like much to long for, and that could explain why I’ll never get it. You have to believe in the magic trick for it to work. Sceptics and septics get to plod the riverpaths, chasing other dreams.
