I’m on Lonely Street, number fifty three.
Boarded up property,
I’ll probably get pulled down.
Litter all around inside there’s
no sound and no light.
But yo it gets busy at night, People creeping.
Derelicts sneaking to fix. Speaking.
On the way my timbers creaking,
Roof leaking. And bricks coming loose,
knee high in refuse.
But even though I’m a slum,
I’m still of some use.
There was a time when my walls where decorated.
And under my roof children where educated.
But now paint’s faded, windows are all smashed,
a crash in the economy robbed me of my family.
And no strategy, combats negative equity,
so that’s it. Like violence it’s drastic.
I’m freaking, and seeking to be
more than just a house for crack.
Somebody bring my family back.
OK, so perhaps classics is pushing it a little bit too far, but whilst leaning back in my office chair I saw this pile of books that my eldest son has ‘finished with’. Music in the Meadow is 40 years old (was given to me in 1970), The Pictorial History of Aircraft was bought for me when I was around 9 (according to the inscription my Nana always insisted on writing) and The Ever Changing Woodland was published when there was woodland to change and the countryside wasn’t just a strip of land between motorways. Whilst the annuals in the photo are recent, both The Dandy and The Beano were also regular deliveries from Santa for me and my Father before me when he was a boy.
The image is nothing special, but it made me think about the printed word, the feel of a book, the smell of a book store. None of which a Kindle will ever be able to match. In spite of electronic everything, there’s something about the smell of a well thumbed novel, or the way a glossy page of photos turns that hopefully will continue to live on.