From the declaration of Bankruptcy in Sept 2023 to now the waste collection chaos, that you’ve probably seen in an account like birmzisgrime.

It’s easy to get bogged down to an already declining country.

(The morale is dipping into the gutter and I think it’ll take a couple more ‘mishaps’ for it to break the camel’s back…)

But beyond the headlines, there’s a resilience in this city that refuses to fade. From the bustling markets to the grassroots community efforts, Birmingham’s spirit still pulses with creativity and grit. Local artists, entrepreneurs, and everyday people are finding ways to rebuild, reconnect, and reimagine what this city can be. The road might be rough, but the heart of Brum hasn’t stopped beating—it’s just waiting for its next comeback

A murmuring void where pebbles swallow footsteps and the horizon bleeds into mist. The rain does not fall; it weeps in slow silver threads, stitching sky to stone. The tide exhales, then inhales, pulling the world with it—a breath too vast for lungs. Time cracks like wet shale. Shadows thicken where light drowns in its own reflection, where the wind is not wind but the hollow hum of a name unsaid. This is not a storm, but the weather’s quiet unraveling. A film not watched, but weathered.

The joy of a perfect day by the sea—waves lapping at smooth, sun-warmed pebbles, laughter ringing over the shore as friends chase the tide. The air hums with the scent of salt and sunscreen, while a distant ice cream truck plays its tinny tune. Someone strums a ukulele as seagulls wheel overhead, and for just this moment, everything feels like summer magic. No worries, just golden light and the promise of adventure.

The city’s shadow-self exhaling—a liquid ballet of sodium-lit alleyways and half-swallowed laughter. The pier’s skeleton hums with forgotten pop songs as the tide licks at its rusted ankles. Strangers pass like ships broadcasting different radio stations, their silhouettes smearing against chip-shop windows. A drunk moon staggers across rooftops, tipping its light into basement clubs where bodies move like ink in water. The dawn, when it comes, is not an ending but a slow blinking—the city rubbing its eyes at the receipts crumpled in its palm.

A seaside symphony of chaos—where sunscreen application becomes an Olympic sport and every toddler with a bucket has the existential focus of a wartime general. The soundtrack? Shrieking seagulls debating chip theft rights, half a Bluetooth speaker’s reggaeton duel with the tide, and at least one man dramatically sighing as he shakes sand out of his sandals for the 47th time.

Sunlight trapped in beer bottles, laughter rolling down chalk cliffs like runaway marbles. Your sneakers kick up clouds of wildflower pollen as the wind steals half your sentences—you shout them anyway. The sea below winks with a thousand broken mirrors, and for once, the horizon feels like a promise instead of an ending. Someone’s balancing a sandwich in one hand and a terrible impression in the other. The goodbye hangs back, politely waiting its turn while you all pretend there’s no such thing as distance, just new places to send stupid voice notes from.

The borough distilled to its radiant core - a liquid mosaic of haggling hands and hollered punchlines, where sunlight fractures through pirated DVDs and halal butchers' cleavers flash like semaphore. The market pulses like a neon artery, spilling forth plastic roses and overripe gossip in equal measure. Laughter pools in the gutters, viscous as spilled Fanta. Every cracked paving slab hums with the vibration of a thousand departed footsteps, every busker's chord hangs pregnant with the ghosts of a hundred last calls. This is London not as document but as living palimpsest - its surfaces vibrating with the afterimages of all who've ever called it home, if only for an afternoon.