He lived here. Isn't that amazing?
Charlie Chaplin actually existed. And it's right in front of me. The most important artist in the history of cinema, at least to me and a lot of other people.
I can't be in Kennington and NOT seek out where he lived. It seems important somehow. It's as close as I can get.
When you watch his old movies, he hardly seems real. He's too magical, too heartbreaking and too funny. He was SO human that it leaves you thinking there's no way he was actually human.
The people who live in these houses hate me. I trespass, I just have to get closer. I'm stalking a ghost of the past, and it can't be helped. He was in those rooms, under that roof.
You figure maybe some of his genius comes from the location, the places he passed through. Maybe the trees around here existed when he did. Maybe there's piece of a brick or a fence or a stone that hasn't been touched since. Maybe you're closer to Charlie than you think. At least, you like to think so.