In my local Kennington Park, usually a place of much bustle and some tussles, it’s so strangely quiet you can hear the creaking doors of the now infrequent 133 on the once-busy road alongside.
The playground is chained shut and the swings are still, the café for croissants and cappuccino closed. We can’t kick a ball or lay sunbathing on a towel, counting the planes pass above. My pastime of sitting on a bench, gazing upon the outdoor gym as if it were a piece of public art to be admired from a distance, is no longer tolerated. I’d be moved on by police. […]
First published in The Oldie on 9 April, 2020. Read online here
Image: Royal Collection, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
