Field Study's Man in E11 swam with tadpoles in search of a new (pond) life.

The vision of Field Study's Man in E11 disemboweled and displayed for the pleasure and provocation of the denizens of Caledonian Road was disturbing. What are 'they' putting in the concrete to stimulate such creativity in the new heart of regenerating darkness that is Kings Cross and surrounds? A week of bloody tracks and signs on the trail of the field student from the centre to the east of the metropolis found me in need of respite from the colourful inner truths of the urban jungle. I started out for the sanctuary of the allotment. I had barely made but two bicycled revolutions in the journey when my attention was caught by a glimpse of a flattened and dried corpse of a frog in the road. The sight of the remains of this creature on the edge of inner city London stimulated a sensation in my gut that spoke of, Field Study's Man in E11. I pulled over to the side of the road to stop, park my bicycle and take a closer look. A taxi blared it's horn and stopped by me. The driver leaned across the front of his cab and called me a "stupid c**t!" I smiled, pointed towards the roadkill and blurted, "frog!" The driver was clearly puzzled by this response but he was still riled by the impertinence of my having slowed him down and he retorted angrily, "well fuck off then back to your pond!" A chorus of horns blared behind him (I like to think disapprovingly) drowning out the wit of my, "great minds think alike, mate!" He accelerated off, continuing all of twenty metres before being halted by a red light. The chorus was also halted in a synaesthetic jam of noxious and baleful emissions. A large truck stopped over the frog remains. The driver gleefully bounced around on his seat, sounding off his horn like the lead in some sort of cacophonous urban street opera inspired by Stockhausen. I decided to abandon this particular attempt at a field study; the situation was stark raving mad. For the rest of the journey to the allotment, and the refuge of our ponds, I contemplated the fine art and craft of the insult and how the taxi driver and I might have continued our verbal spat; an extemporized war of words to the accompaniment of an 'auto-combusting' horn section. On arrival at the allotment, the oasis of birdsong calmed my fevered mind, and I was soon absorbed in the pathetically fallacious mysteries of our ponds.