The next time you find yourself at a bus stop in Kennington, or on a double-decker to Elephant and Castle, stop and take a look up at the sign. Tied to almost every post in this glorious stretch of the capital is a bizarre assortment of foliage. Cuttings of gnarly twig strangle the wobbly metal whilst clippings of weathered leaf twitch precariously in the wind.
At first, one can mistake it for the tragic site of some roadside accident. But I think even a tramp’s offering to road-killed vermin would be more honouring to the memory of a dearly departed one than these puked up clods of earth.
I am inclined to believe that some mystical voodoo sorceress by the name of Madame Bombola, has been boiling chicken feet in pots and dipping said twigs in the rank and thick mix to enchant the whole of SE11. Why would a creature commit such a vile and depraved act, TO PLAY God!?
No. Being a voodoo master in this day and age is not a 9-5 affair, in fact work is so hard to come by that Madame Bombola has established her own bazaar of treats and trinkets. You’ll find her most weekdays in a shanty lean-to by the shopping centre selling all kinds of plastic nick-naks and fancy-thats that would proudly adorn any mantel for at least the 28-day warranty period.
Why else would a consumer with such discerning taste as myself be getting overwhelming urges to buy a giant plastic Buddha head that emits a multicoloured aura from its crown when connected to any mains socket?
It MUST be witchcraft.