BOSCOMBE CRESCENT

The benches on Boscombe Crescent have a lived-in look to them, watchful as a cornered ghost, with plenty of scars and other peculiarities as if they’ve taken on the character of the situations that have deeply and most fiercely been part of their lives over the last few decades; i.e. thieves and prostitutes, crackheads and homeless, nomads and jesters and storytellers, hardened waitresses and explosive affairs, and old winos shadowboxing ghosts.

Boscombe is the dog that everyone kicks, and the Crescent is muddy, polluted, oily, smoky and rank. A portion of grass and bushes of easy virtue, if ever there was such a thing, and the benches, eavesdropping on what the earth is saying, are left with nothing but holy curiosity and crazy wisdom.

But the Crescent helped to shape me. I'm proud that we dared be different and we dared to break the mould. Many people I knew would never have had the bottle.

But we did, we did.

Copyright © Karl Wiggins