SO I’M PLAYING IN THIS HERE BROCKWELL PARK

And my dad strokes his beard retelling how he used to walk through this very park with his aunt as a toddler - probably only a shortcut to his house in Brixton...

And and stares into the distance, recalling childhood curiosity: “What magicness might lie inside of the Lido?” Because he could only see people jumping from a diving board from behind the wall... He just couldn’t see where they were jumping to.

Wonder why he didn’t ask - maybe wasn’t told... For It is only my own inner child’s, unsatisfied emphatical empathy, that answers my nephew’s constant questions - no matter how uncomfortable they be...

And how come I ended up coming here anyway – seeing as dad only told me this beard stroking story, after I’d brought the boy to Brockwell Park when he was two. Would’ve frequented more had it not been for them meat-head dogs - the sort of dogs I’d not want around young children - and their owners insist on letting them off their leads...

... Dad’s upper lip stays firm, seeing his parents pack up the house without warning when he was three – fleeing to Kent, every corner of Brixton getting flattened in the war...he wouldn't be recognising it now, what with all the gentrification 'n'all –

And he'll never get used to not being on the food rations neither...

But I wonder, how it is that I stay here - after fourteen years as a committed Culchie in the wild west of Ireland – to the point I’d be slagging off Ireland’s idiosyncrasies like a local, with the locals...In the way that you’d slag off a member of own family – but anyone saying a word against 'em - well you’d be fucking them up from here ‘til Sunday...

But I guess I only stay here for the nephew... it’s my inner child that's got to –

She’s got to stay –

Only to stay to play with the children...

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