Modern life is rubbish.
Sunday morning. Some are finding their salvation in services, others stand before secular art and search for signs of truth.
Smarter people than me might think of Inclosure Acts. Or maybe they’d dwell on the need for rules to decide who owns what fence and whose responsibility it is to maintain a fair and sound border. We might get flippant and discuss boundary disputes and or think of Les Dawson talking over a garden fence with Roy Barraclough. Maybe we could wonder about how thin pieces of budget wood implant themselves as solid, defined boundaries even as we watch foxes dig under them.
It’s no longer a phone box and it’s no longer advertising Costa Coffee particularly well.
Don’t spoil the magic.
Words etched in wood. Names linked to views or places by the people who knew them. “For Dad Who Loved The Sea” or “In Honour of the Mayor”. Sometimes there are no words. This is a memorial bench unveiled in 2008. It is for Billie-Jo Jenkins who was murdered in 1997. She was 13.
The dentist’s waiting room. As a child, we sat in what must once have been a pleasing townhouse. Now it was all municapal yellow paint and dour warnings about missed appointments costing time. A much nicer one, private, had a cat called Hubert who lounged as folk with money waited around him. Now back in the NHS there are magazines about very expensive cars to be read. Or Elle Decoration for the ladies.