David Brent

My car was being serviced so I wander for a few hours round Brent. The bushes are heavy with raspberries. Some predatorial bird stood in my path hacking away at a mouse caught for lunch.

There's a big expanse of water here, the edges are covered with a thick green scum, I shall name it Scum Loch.

Shags dive, pigeons saw, fish rise, leaping briefly out of the water. It smells rotten, Someone has left coconuts.

I hunger.

Time passes and I arrive at the other side of Scum Loch, armed with a carton of cranberry juice and a packet of sour gobstoppers.

Wildlife is all around me, I think I'm being stalked by water rats or otters, duck type birds squawk unseen, scum bubbles methane, in the distance my car is serviced.

A small clearing off the man path, conker trees stand tall overhead, ancient matresses lie rotting in the undergrowth and I'm thinking about doing rude things to girls.

How many generations of kids have played here on their bikes?

Some trees appear broken, not just branches, but whole trunks torn assunder. Do giants walk in these regions?

Parkland populated by seagulls, dog walkers and litter picker uppers. I feel like I'm in Doctor Who's England.

Wembley's arch looming on the horizon, a burnt out motorbike in the trees, a small pair of knickers too close to the water's edge.

Why does my car take so long? Isn't it just an oil check and a brake check?

McDonalds for dinner, the Wembley arch still looming sinisterly behind some trees. The Big BBQ burger is nothing special, I wish I hadn't bothered.