Mark Wagstaff, writer and author

The Canal - read more


She got pissed at the tourists, the out-of-towners, the gangs of girls pinching clothes. She felt so much older than them. They sat on the tube, squawking, spraying deodorant where it was hot, staring at her curiously in her black shirt and heavy make up. She knew without knowing they came from the low-rise, the Kingsburys and Beckenhams; that a stolen top and a slidy puff made them gangsters; they’d pop their cherries to nice enough lads who played football; they’d settle, get jobs, have pretty kids. A night with the girls once a month to drink white rum and remember. That would have been me, thought Katie. If I wasn’t dirty inside.