not such an nice Sunday today. i took a walk to Brockwell Park, one of the best parts of living in Brixton. it’s elevated, large, green, has ponds, tall trees, a cafe, a view over London and is an effective escape from the less savoury side of living in Brixton. until today. i took a walk there to finish reading my book “A Million Little Pieces” about James Frey’s experiences recovering from drug and alcohol addiction. fairly heavy going (whilst not particularly factual), but reading that firmly puts you back thinking about the good things of life. a spot by the pond, grass, sunshine. after about an hour a man attracted my attention and asked if i knew what was going on up by the tennis courts. i said i had no idea. looking over, there was a policewoman keeping watch over a cordoned off area (just a strip of tape) and a large object near the hedge covered with something bright red. with dread i realised i could have been relaxing for over an hour with a dead person just up the hill. unable to not know, i walked up and asked, and yes, the object under the blanket was a dead man. he’d been lying there all day in the sun under the blanket, while forensics got themselves together to check it out this ‘suspicious death’. all day.


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