360° Degrees and Twelve Hours of Newington Green, Islington, London.

Newington Green is essentially a rectangle — an incredibly small park surrounded by a one-way roundabout system — but in my head it is always circular, like a ticking clock.

Let us begin at Noon, or Midnight. Northwards, and luckily, homewards too. Towards Stoke Newington, which is where I always say I am from. Then I have to clarify ‘Hackney’ because no one’s heard of it. The end of Church Walk spills out onto the road, twisting slightly to hide the sight of home (navy door with a window shaped like a porthole). It was cobbled when I was little, but renovations to the houses nearby also gave the dead-end street a covering of tarmac. On its right, a cream coloured building, the Old Church — the Meeting House now, a multi-faith space. The paint is solid, reapplied often; a layer of the building, and one that you can almost smell. Above its large and bright red doors are the words Erected 1705 — Enlarged 1844. I find this very funny. Its side is spray painted with a stencil of the author, activist and philosopher Mary Wollstonecraft (1759-1787), who among other things, set up a school nearby. I high-five it every time I walk past; the paint is always ice-cold at night.

One O’clock. Matthias Road leads away; the only bus route down it from here is the 236. Towards Travis Perkins, the Stoke Newington High Street, and Dalston. Fancy Tesco’s is down this route, but I always go there via Howard Square, because it’s quicker from our house. One of the two Belle Epoque chains is here; their pastries are delicious, but far too expensive. I had a Pain au Almond once. The Mildmay Club, to its right — another community space, but one that I have never entered. The lights never seem to be on after dark. It is grey, and always seems to be covered in silent scaffolding, the kind that looks like the taste of tin. Then the bicycle shop, Push Cycles, black matte paint and white letters. My mother has had her bike chain fixed there more than once, but always after covering her hands in oil to try and do it herself. The bikes are hung up against the ceiling, as though advertised to E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial. A hairdresser, Buller and Rice. Smells like nondescript soap.

Two O’Clock. The terrace with front gardens; a plane tree grows tall in one of them, covering this side of the pavement in orange leaves every autumn. Skeletal bald twigs cover the scattered stars tonight. The best entrance to Newington Green itself comes from that crossing. An oddly tall lamppost is on the corner, shining warm light on the cool pavement. I always seem to be running for buses along this stretch.

Three O’Clock. Starboard. Newington Green Primary School, the back entrance, no longer used. It is still split into two, labelled Boys and Girls in solid carved letters, sandstone or something of a similar colour. Garamond-esque font, illegible at night. One of the bus stops — 72317 is the number to text for times, but this one has an LED counter, sunset orange. Islington puts a counter on practically every bus stop in the borough. 73s, which I take the most (from Stoke Newington Common, where my friend Fineas lives, towards Oxford Circus), 476s (from near Emily and Paul’s house, which smells of their dog Hero, and towards King’s Cross), 236s (moving south but towards north, from Bridge Academy and towards Finsbury Park where I saw Dungeons and Dragons at the Cinema), 141s (from Ikea, to London Bridge) and 341s (from Ikea, via Sadler’s Wells, to the Southbank — where I grew up, in a way). The 21 also used to come this way (same route as the 141, only further south and terminating at Six O’Clock), but it was rerouted.

Four O’Clock. The light fades early this time of year. The hairdressers, Shine On The Green. They smell of hot water; they once tried to make my hair ‘into pom-pom, yes?’ when I was about six years old. Jolene’s Very Expensive Cafe, one of those ones that people go to to prove they went rather than to eat. The Clothing Containers, for charity. Every school shoe I ever outgrew went in there, clanging loudly. Far too empty in winter, and too full in summer.

Five O’Clock. Two roads, close to each other. Mildmay Road, a residential street. King Henry’s Walk Garden is further on that way, with roasted chestnuts that burn your fingers. Mildmay Park — almost directly south. Towards the Library, covered in yellow metal and the sound of quiet, and the trainline. The Overground services from Highbury and Islington to Clapham Junction and from Richmond to Stratford pass under the road in the distance. The 141 is now the only bus that goes down this road. Both of the roads are separated by the Lady Mildmay public house, which sells Olive Oil flavoured crisps. I surprised myself by liking them; they sound ridiculous but they were actually quite palatable — that was the evening of the 23rd of December, many years ago now, with string lights shining out on the wet road.

Six. Both hands directly down, and yet not much to be seen, caught between two main roads that lead south. A chiropractor’s that never seems to be open, sickly white neon above the door.. A block of council flats (Hathersage Court) that never seem to be busy.  The empty space where the 21 buses used to terminate; as a (precocious) youth I would hit the Stop button anyway because I was worried the drivers would forget. A phonebooth that presumably still works.

Seven. The other south road; Newington Green Road. By far the busiest, but most of it is not visible, blocked by the council flats and the little storage building on the Green itself. The Edinburgh Cellars public house that always seems to be lit by candlelight. The florist’s, called Gingerlily’s. The newsagent’s, called Newington Park Express. The tailor’s, called Stitch by Stitch, with clothes hung up high enough that hooks are needed to get them down — I have gotten my favourite green coat fixed there twice. The delicatessen, called (somewhat inexplicably) Gelateria and Coffee Joint. And finally the other newsagent’s, called Green Off-License, that always stocked exactly one copy of the Beano because me and my sister were the only one’s in the area reading it. One long corridor, that shop was, stretching out towards a vanishing point interrupted by the counter. It’s changed hands now. The fish and chips shop, Paradise Fish, with a glowing navy blue sign. It looks cheap but unappealing, and alway seems to be doing sausages rather than fish. It has a five star hygiene rating though, so who am I to judge. None of them are open after dark in the summer, but winter is always when I picture them.

I’m not here nearly enough.

Eight O’Clock. The pavemented end of Ferntower Road; my route to school, seven minutes further. They always seem to be filming something here. Bike loops, little pots for plants that also seem to be there to prevent any cheeky shortcuts by automobiles. Ferntower reaches backwards into the distance as well, with Poet’s Road branching off on the right. The sandy-coloured cat sometimes comes down here. In the winter, Christmas lights seem to ricochet off each side of the street, reflecting off of the damp, unkempt surface. The place-that-used-to-be-the-Acoustic is now called No. 60 Brasserie. The Acoustic did fresh orange juice, which did not taste good enough to be worth the novelty of watching the little Rube Goldberg machine smash a citrus to pieces right in front of your eyes. They did cheese (Edam? The taste grows fuzzy in my mind) and ham croissants, slightly melted. They moved to Church Street, where the Clissia restaurant used to be. I have not been in that place since Rilla Draude, my friend Fineas’s grandmother, visited from Australia. She gave me Ten Australian Dollars, which even yet are folded neatly in a dusty jar beneath my bed, for when I visited. I haven’t yet. She died before she could visit again either.

Nine. Port. The busiest side. The little cafe within the Green itself, Lizzy’s On The Green. The Jazz Festival is held here every year, beneath more plane trees — these ones are lit in blue and green from their bases at night. The Playground, about three metres from Lizzy’s, with swings that should not taste like blue skittles in my memory, and yet do. Across the one way road is one of the oldest complete terraces in London, the UK, and Europe. Red brick, tall, ornate, built in 1658, still residential on the upper floors. A William Hill, with no windows, to the left. The Cadet cafe that, like Jolene’s, seems to not be about food or drink, although Cadet’s is more of a social club than anything else — it looks like old wood inside, dark brown varnish, with the chairs always up on the tables even when it’s open. The cheese shop, which is not called John’s, but is inexplicably labelled as such. The Cobbler’s. Comfortingly hobnail-y. I only met the previous proprietor once, when I was five; a dedicatory note is now blu-tacked to the window. The pharmacy; a Boots. I got one of my vaccinations there. The Newington Green Dry Cleaners, run by a couple who look old enough to remember the Crossing of the Rubicon. They always did my school blazer, once every four months for five years straight. White sign, red and blue lettering, halogen lighting. Then a newsagent’s with a 2 score on the hygiene rating. A bus stop, the twin of the one at Three O’Clock — likewise with an LED timetable, and the same buses going in the opposite directions. This used to be the 21’s first stop, looping around Newington Green to go south. Students from my secondary school can be found at this bus stop every weekday, changing from the 236s to whatever they need to get home. I just walk. Why am so homesick for a small park that I always bypass and rarely actually enter?

Ten O’Clock. Student Housing, Alliance House – Sanctuary Students. Behind an electric gate. A fancy wine shop that used to be the toyshop Three Potato Four, which I barely remember, but also did haircuts in 1950s American Diner style stools. A restaurant that never stays in business no matter who owns it. An Italian place called Trattoria lasted the longest; my sixth birthday party was in there. I vomited in the toilet, and it tasted like drinking water after brushing your teeth. A real-estate business that likewise never seems to be open. A travel agency with the same problem. For literal years, there was a metallic red heart balloon stuck in a tree on this corner, long since popped. Now, at night, it reflects the light of the moon from the east, making the tree seem almost bejewelled. Green Lanes, stretching away Northwestwards, taking the boundary of Islington and Hackney with it. Classic Tesco’s is visible in the distance, as is the pet shop (Pack and Clowder), the Turkish Cake place (Antepliler Baklava) and the end of Winston Road, which does Halloween Decor good enough to get minor articles in newspapers. I went down there once dressed as the Grim Reaper, walked up to the most ostentatiously decorated house, complete with organ music and mood lighting, opened the door to a space filled with dry ice — out of which stepped a teenager in a school uniform. Another bus stop, where the 141 and 341 arrive from. No counter on this one; Hackney council rather than Islington. They’re cheap. 77826 is the number to text for the times.

It gets misty at night, sometimes. The edges, the roads leading out get blurred and muddled, to the point where they lack definition in every sense of the word. But here, in the centre, the world remains constant.

Eleven O’Clock. Getting late. A redbrick cylinder rises up between Green Lanes and Albion road, flats on every floor but the bottom, which used to be the Gate, a restaurant. They did oven-baked omelettes, and squeaky halloumi, and loads and loads of salad dressing. Heinz Mayonnaise, too. It was briefly a french restaurant called the Flying Frenchman, but that did not survive the lockdown, and it's now a greengrocer called Lily’s. We get basil and tofu from there, and sometimes basil tofu. Oh, and cherries, when they’re in season. Blood red. Albion Road stretches into the far far distance, and a little way down it is a turn off onto Howard Road, which is also a route home if you can’t be bothered to go down Church Walk, since they are exactly the same length. Another bus stop — 73 and 476 come from Church Street, and can be seen coming from the very end of the road. Hackney again; no counter. A 5G tower in the far distance. Progress marches on; constancy is a myth, a fable cooked up by those with bad enough memories that they cannot compare what is to what was. So many empty buildings.

But not tonight. It’s biting cold, and almost the bloody witching hour, and yet I have never felt more warm. I never do, here.

Finally, Midnight again. Or else Noon. A fake-old fashioned building, flats, between Albion Road and Church Walk. In the glow emanating from those windows, ever so slightly above head heights, you can see the back ends of someone’s books, as the windowsill is used as a shelf. Two have fallen enough to see; a yellowing copy of More Than A Woman by Caitlin Moran, and a brand-spanking-new copy of Yoko Ogawa’s The Memory Police. Then Church Walk. My home; we’ve made the full round. A streetlight, just out of sight round the bend and flickering ever so slightly, lights the way home. It beckons. Time to go, I think.

It’ll be here tomorrow too, after all.

Buddy Ray Deering is a Writer, Actor and General Nuisance from London. They are currently studying at Bangor University, where they have been writing a great deal more than they have been studying — don't tell their lecturers. Aside from scribbled.online, they have also been published in an anthology by Wingless Dreamer Publishers. In their free time, they enjoy watching pretentious old films.