SEVEN SISTERS, by James Machin“… the stars generate mad dreams, harmful to those who harbour them”
It began innocuously enough. We had lived in that area of London—Seven Sisters—for, I suppose, three years. During that time we had had a child and, being less gainfully employed than my wife, I assumed much of the childcare by default. The arrangement was allegedly temporary. I was looking for a job; expecting to find a job imminently, in fact. But it incrementally became apparent to me that the editing and proofreading work had dried up irreversibly. I contrived to disguise this truth from my wife and, rather in desperation, quixotically hatched up my own book project on local history, a project that promised to generate neither income nor interest. It would keep me busy, at least, while I
