Dead Flag Blues
Winding my way around the backstreets near Holborn Viaduct I came across a trade entrance to one of the buildings that loomed above me.
Old flags hung from the walls, a St George’s flag, some sort of Royal Standard or two, another I couldn’t identify at all. They were tattered, frayed, grubby.
I wondered if they were just being stored here, were once flown from the roof. Or perhaps this was once a grander entrance, each delivery greeted by the proud fluttering of flags, rather than the sad old silks of today. There may be a story here, there may not.