Vines overspilling the eight foot wall of a townhouse garden have glued their tendrils to the brick for support: picture suckers at the tips of quadruple-jointed alien fingers in some long forgotten B-movie of the fifties, puckering up to the clean-cut hero’s kisser. At some points, the living plant – a sweetshop blend of mint & raspberry tints – has either died back or been drastically pruned, leaving ashy limpets at eye-height to show its abandoned passage along the entire stretch of wall.
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