(Sarah Broadhurst, self published, 2022)

“A traditional redemption arc in zine form” according to its creator, who as one half of the much missed One Beat collective should know what she’s talking about, much as I’m usually up for distrusting an artist’s interpretation of their own work. Still, one read of Sad Train Station Sandwich is all it will take to show that this particular creator knew what they were about when they made it. The witty catalogue of life’s least convincing amenities dazzles on its own terms, but it as you read on it starts to add up to something more haunting, a study of dislocation from someone who clearly knows the landscape. The memory of chips lost to a booze haze, attempts to figure out what separates the posh prawn sandwich from the one that costs a few more quid, the spectre of cold nights in back gardens as felt in passing on a cold bench in a busy place – it’s all deeply evocative, true to life as we hope to live it and to how it’s lived.

If you’re like me you’ll be amused and intrigued by the small details, and will find yourself craving access to the web of spreadsheets and hotel ranking lists implied by the text. Even if you’re not like me, you’ll recognise the longing in the words, the attempts to imagine a world that might just sit still for long enough to be enjoyed rather than fleetingly categorised.