The blocks of flats, that stand opposite Clapham Junction are ugly. Made from grey concrete, and brown 1960s pebbledash, with just a dash of cancer; they look like a sick persons shit. The dirty yellow net curtains of the poor under-classes, hang in the hundreds of un-cleaned windows. If anyone I loved, lived there, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself. Sleep would not come to find me at night. Food would taste foul; drink rancid. If I couldn’t help them get away to somewhere else, what would be the point of me, or my love for them?