Like, technically, it is two paragraphs but hey ... poetic license?
by Elaine AM Smith
The first time he had peered through the gates of the overgrown garden, to the pile of bricks cemented together by vines, it had reminded Tom of some sleeping princess’s forgotten castle. He had tried to decide which was worse: the fact that he had been talked into coming over to Chelsea for a bit of wilful destruction or that he was standing outside a rotting building thinking about damsels in distress. Tom rubbed his head against the metalwork until it crumbled in protest. Rust clung to his damp forehead and his shaking hands, “You dragged me north of the river for this?”
My year group partner was away from work today. I missed her. It's no fun revolting on your own.