DanPearson
02-11-2011, 07:42 PM
Concrete Jungle.
A light drizzle descends upon the urban sprawl that I call home. The concrete jungle, row upon row of bricked terraced houses, is silent. When the sun leaves the people flee, curtains pulled tightly closed, doors locked, double locked. The black tarred pavements, wide and empty, can only be told apart from the desolate road by the odd metallic lampposts. Cars line one behind the other next to the pavements, mostly all second hand or under five grand. Various lonely trees, placed hundreds of metres apart, attempt to lighten the atmosphere, however not succeeding. Few brave citizens lurk the streets at this time of night, they usually travel in groups in fear of their safety. The back streets and lanes littered with overflowing black bin bags and useless pieces of furniture provide cover from possible human interaction between the fat bald man and his dog. The council have given up on us, stalks of grass creep up from the cracks in the paving stones and curbs. Avoiding stepping on chewing gum or animal excrement is like winning the lottery. A can of warm Carling and a bag of cold chips will be a fitting reward for most locals after a hard day’s work of stacking the shelves at Tesco or deep frying some chicken at one of 54 fast food chains dotted around the local high street. A long motorway was built, elevated over the area, made initially for transport to the much more luxurious areas and towns, however it’s been used for the past few years as a viewing point for the more privileged to mock and laugh at us.
During the day the town comes to life, empty shopping bags float from one end of the street to the other, much to my amusement. Public transport picks up the people who have no ambition, transporting them to the various factories, windowless offices and empty retail parks where they dwell for five days a week working nine hour shifts. The local park is usually the hub of activity. The flat grass area is bordered by about five oak trees and a miniscule fenced play area where once upon a time small children went to “have fun" and "play on the swings." Today the tracksuit wearing, cigarette wielding youth come out to share their stories about when Vicky got pissed and puked at Jordan’s fancy dress party. A tidal muddy river splits apart the east and west, the tide is always out, the muddy sloping banks display objects from local history - shopping trolleys, bicycles and car tires - lodged in the mud, always reminding the people of the town that historically, we’re a force to be reckoned with!
The truth is I love where I live, it’s not perfect by any means but it’s where I feel safe, even though it’s not. It makes me happy to be living with the people in my area; they are not money grabbing, self centred, arrogant snobs but people who work hard all their lives, people who care for other peoples well beings, people who raise children in the hope that one day they’ll move on to live in happiness and fulfilment.
A light drizzle descends upon the urban sprawl that I call home. The concrete jungle, row upon row of bricked terraced houses, is silent. When the sun leaves the people flee, curtains pulled tightly closed, doors locked, double locked. The black tarred pavements, wide and empty, can only be told apart from the desolate road by the odd metallic lampposts. Cars line one behind the other next to the pavements, mostly all second hand or under five grand. Various lonely trees, placed hundreds of metres apart, attempt to lighten the atmosphere, however not succeeding. Few brave citizens lurk the streets at this time of night, they usually travel in groups in fear of their safety. The back streets and lanes littered with overflowing black bin bags and useless pieces of furniture provide cover from possible human interaction between the fat bald man and his dog. The council have given up on us, stalks of grass creep up from the cracks in the paving stones and curbs. Avoiding stepping on chewing gum or animal excrement is like winning the lottery. A can of warm Carling and a bag of cold chips will be a fitting reward for most locals after a hard day’s work of stacking the shelves at Tesco or deep frying some chicken at one of 54 fast food chains dotted around the local high street. A long motorway was built, elevated over the area, made initially for transport to the much more luxurious areas and towns, however it’s been used for the past few years as a viewing point for the more privileged to mock and laugh at us.
During the day the town comes to life, empty shopping bags float from one end of the street to the other, much to my amusement. Public transport picks up the people who have no ambition, transporting them to the various factories, windowless offices and empty retail parks where they dwell for five days a week working nine hour shifts. The local park is usually the hub of activity. The flat grass area is bordered by about five oak trees and a miniscule fenced play area where once upon a time small children went to “have fun" and "play on the swings." Today the tracksuit wearing, cigarette wielding youth come out to share their stories about when Vicky got pissed and puked at Jordan’s fancy dress party. A tidal muddy river splits apart the east and west, the tide is always out, the muddy sloping banks display objects from local history - shopping trolleys, bicycles and car tires - lodged in the mud, always reminding the people of the town that historically, we’re a force to be reckoned with!
The truth is I love where I live, it’s not perfect by any means but it’s where I feel safe, even though it’s not. It makes me happy to be living with the people in my area; they are not money grabbing, self centred, arrogant snobs but people who work hard all their lives, people who care for other peoples well beings, people who raise children in the hope that one day they’ll move on to live in happiness and fulfilment.