Sanity grows in parks

I was in the library the other day when perfect strangers spoke about how awful it would be if our library closed.  ‘Yes,’ said one woman, ‘it will be dreadful if the libraries go, but if they shut the parks… people will go mad.’  This photo shows a floral display (red, white and blue?) in Southwark Park. It’s my nod to the royal wedding. Of course, Kat and Will will never be without parks; we had better keep our parks, too, or else…

Double Happiness!

Occasionally, the camera and I venture beyond Peckham.  This is a young man employed in the kitchen of a restaurant or hotel near London’s Carnaby Street (an assumption based on his clothes).  He’s taking a break and by squatting and shielding his face, he has created privacy out on the street. He reads a book… nearly at the end now.  He's also holding a lighter and pack of Double Happiness cigarettes, a Chinese brand, for times when single happiness is not enough.  

When Art met Music

How else to paint Handel, if not with care?  This is the packaging on an artist’s work soon to be unwrapped and hung -- with care -- at an exhibition space in Peckham.  

Taking a shine to shoes

Forget Paris. In Peckham the trend is for wearing a shoe upon the head.  It promotes excellent posture and there’s one left over to walk in. 

Miracles and Beans

Anyone expecting the Big warm-hearted Society to spring from a land ravaged by cuts to every conceivable service that promotes societal well-being, must be wildly optimistic or believe in miracles.

No longer exceptional events, miracles have become commodities, like tinned food. Pop along to the Beneficial Veracious Christ Church Miracle Centre in Peckham and you’re practically guaranteed a miracle, if that’s what you want.  Well, who doesn’t fancy a miracle?  Oh, and look, two tins of beans for the price of one.  

Puff Daddy and the Peckham Pigeon

The Peckham pigeon

Doesn't strut

She's not that vain

Too busy dodging traffic

On one good leg

The other's lame

Arse in the air

Thick around the middle

A waddle

A flutter

Of feathers the colour of lead

But

It has to be said

To Puff Daddy she's the bee's knees

He fans his tail

Extends his chest

Coos his caress

To his one true love

His mate: the Peckham Pigeon

Dancing to his own tune

It’s silly to have written about the Grand Prix Priest (see previous blog) and not to have included a photo of him. Here are two. Neither is a good snap, but they will give you the idea. He’s a great exponent of dancing, but having watched his jig several times, I am at a loss to describe it. Certainly, chutzpah comes into it. But, the Dancing Priest is on to something. He’s on to dancing!