Growing up, the world was taller but also quieter. As my bones grew, I felt my home grow too. The city was always big, but it was where my roots were. We grew up with close friends and family who lived streets away. In winter we’d all sit in front of fires together and roast chestnuts. We’d lie in the park and have huge picnics with our white knee-high socks and bruised elbows. The nights were always short, there was too much to be explored, so much to be done. I would trace patterns with my fingers on the carpet at 5am waiting for everyone to wake up. My friends and I would eat ice creams and dip our feet in the fountains of the town. We drew maps of what we thought the world looked like and we grew Ribena stains on our frocks. We spent days walking the streets of Kensington in rows of two with our plaid uniforms dragging clipboards and kicking sticks. My cousins and I would pick strawberries from my Grandpa’s vegetable patch on the weekends. There was always action.
As I grew more, I began to explore the city alone. It was always good to me. The people would smile, they would help and they somewhat felt like a distant family. I saw the streets bustle with life, music, dancing and all other things. Nothing is ever quiet in London, there is always song or chatter. Sometimes it saddens me that it’s so over-run by people, the streets I used to walk are now overflowing into the busy roads, foreign voices shouting in angry tones and cameras being pushed around. Maybe I’m just more aware now. It’s still my home, no matter how scary it may sometimes feel with so much newness. These are some of my very first photojournalistic street photos I have taken, something new to practise and get to grips with. These are photos of home.