I’m making a Blurb book (an internet design program for photo books) of snaps I’ve taken in and around Peckham, most of them dating back to the early part of this glorious century. Not all my photos and words can fit into what will be a small book; some will find their way into the Blog. Here’s one.
This headline stopped me in my tracks: 'CHICKEN ADDICT’S SUICIDE'. What is it like to be addicted to chicken, I wondered? Doomed to a constant ingestion of KFC? Incredible chicken cravings that can erupt at any time? Never feeling like you can eat enough of the damn bird? Does the addict's day start with a giant bucket of fried chicken wings? Can you get high on chicken? Does addiction lead to dreaming about chickens; inhaling, like a junkie with his crack, chicken aroma; wishing there was a device to mainline it, spending every penny and conscious moment chasing the chicken dragon?
When I bought the paper I discovered I was on the wrong track. The 'addiction' was to live chickens. The man kept 73 of them in a flat he shared with another man. But, when a new batch of eggs arrived for hatching, the flatmate objected, and threatened to move out. At the inquest, the flatmate explained that the dead man 'had an addiction to chickens… He had 73 when he passed away -- I said this and the 20-plus rabbits was a problem -- insanitary.' This led to a row, which, apparently, triggered the suicide. The Southwark Coroner said the man's death was a loss to medicine. He had been a surgeon, originally from Iraq.
