Fish Island (Hackney Wick), Sunday 4th March 2018

Fish Island is a dark puddle of forgotten factory decay. Slumped between Victoria Park and the Olympic stadium, its crumbling buildings are held together by spray-paint and a grim determination to see out their end. New flats march on the edges.

This broken, filthy, colourful, brick and cobble pocket against time will soon yield to towers of glass and steel balconies. Too weary to fight their deathbed. 

While walking through this morning I heard a low thudding bass. Moon-eyed folk stalked from a warehouse, newborns shocked by cold daylight. Some hovered by the doorway trying to light wobbly cigarettes. The bass pounded on. 11.30am and last night churned on. The factory door hung open. Should poke my head in just to see - to catch the last embers of something exciting?

I paused. The door open. Louder music calling. Dare I?

Instead I walked on to John Lewis to collect new grey curtains I'd ordered. Which says it all.