Criers, Punks and a Small Dog
A walk from a grey afternoon into a neon night: a crier in red and gold, a punk with a crest like a crown, a small dog in a tartan coat, and the lights of the underground.
Not every footprint is a sit-down portrait. Some days you just walk, camera up, and let the city introduce itself.
First, a crier in a red coat and a tricorn hat, beard as white as the trim on his sleeves. He posed like he’d been doing it for centuries — then checked his phone.
A little further on, a punk with a crest of black feathers held court on a railing, tongue out, jacket covered in studs and patches. Pure theatre, and very generous with it.
Then the smallest brother of the day: a whippet in a tartan coat, trembling slightly in the cold, completely unbothered by the crowd.
By night the streets turned to light — speed signs, painted numbers on wet tarmac, a round sign glowing red and blue over the stairs down. One more footprint, walked rather than drawn.