Sandringham
Sandringham is the drug dealer who lives upstairs, though I see him so little that I sometimes suspect that he’s just another figment of my troubled imagination. I am almost constantly answering the door to his 15 year old clients, nonchalant yet terrified, and directing them up the darkened stairwell. I myself must stick to purely legal highs, to ensure that my work speaks to both halves of the criminal divide, but I neither condemn nor condone Sandringham’s endeavours. I am however vaguely uncomfortable with the idea of him testing his ‘product’ on local cats; I saw one repeatedly running head-first into the side of a skip yesterday, such a heartbreaking metaphor for modern life that I had to go back to bed for 6 hours and missed my housing benefit appointment. The war on drugs has many hidden costs.
