at the fire hotel and half a mile on they’re digging up the station square. Follow the inner ring and you’ll see the old lime-yellow car park levels broken and exposed, Auden’s wedding cake face left out in the rain, to be replaced by a glass mall nobody wanted. The city approaches are creaking, overwhelmed by job-rush fleets of Audis and Qashqais bought on the monthly, luxury flats at risk of flood, these roads intended for dog carts and dons on penny-farthings. Magdalen Bridge keeps its dignity eastwards, refusing to slip a notch for the Iffley massive. City under strain. We should take to the water on our paddleboards, pedestrianize the lot of it. We should build more schools and homes and concrete the hills to save the meadow.
