I always thought I was a piece of shit, grown on a council estate, a weed from cracked concrete.
No Daddy at home, wearing hand knit clothes and hand-me-down, secondhand shoes with the laces missing, tongue hanging out; gazing at strawberry bon-bons, stealing chocolate or The Beano.
Burning cars, ragging bikes and running foot races for kisses from girls in bushes that outline a car park. Landings and stairways stunk to high heaven, rubbish bags dropped to six foot bins that might as well be hell, like life on this estate,
and my bike was stolen after three days of ownership.
Our clothes too were stolen from where we built snowmen. Then the two whirling washing lines needed fencing in to protect them while we stomped fag ends into the mud, tried to breathe life into injured birds who ended up buried with ice lolly stick grave markers.
I wonder if they’re still there or if they escaped like so many of us.