East Street

I come from pie and mash and jellied eels.

I come from grappling in the after-show debris of market stalls, the barrow boys and girls of East Street market – and left over spuds.

I come from my Nan, the Queen of Southwark toilets, a cup of Rosie-Lee and spend a penny as you do.

I come from a lost continent, a people annexed from their country and a father I’m cut off from.

I come from prefabs and den-making in the woods, from hollyhocks and aquilegers, from misty-eyed men full of liquid amber.

I come from Tower Bridge and running before the bridge goes up, playing quietly while Mum dozes in the sun.

From an orange chair and ‘whose’s there?’ Where did she go? Can we come back home? To ‘there she is’.

I come from algae in the water, terrapins in the tray, cat tins, mice droppings and baggy socks at my ankles with the faces of the Bay City Rollers smiling up at me.

I come from British Bulldog and fast games and fierce friends.

I come from ‘Big Ben strikes ten;’ I come from him again.

I come from newspapers, gathered from the Print. Stories at my feet, snipping, snipping, snipping. Scrap books and glue.

I am me and you are you.

Written by Melanie Benn.