If you’re one of the few people who actually ever reads my blog, you’ll know that I headed to my home town on Wednesday. My parents have moved away, so this is the first time since going to university that I’ve really been back to see anybody.
Most other people from my town seem to relish going home in the holidays to see their friends and family, but the thought of going out to one of three awful clubs and seeing people I used to know somehow terrifies me. It might just be because their signs look like this though…
Oh thank you Fever, you see, I thought you were going to play party anthems from the future to the past, I’m glad you clarified how the passage of time functions.
For obvious reasons, I’ve thus far avoided spending my shoe string budget on watered down vodka in a sticky floored club where TOWIE cast members occasionally come to smile vacantly at people I hate.
Instead, I took advantage of the fields that London denies me, smoking the last of my Marlboros on the way to avoid feeling too healthy. My friend and I took his small but absolutely insane dog Fudge, who once jumped out of an attic window, pissed a bit of blood and was then completely fine, for an evening walk.
The night felt safe and fresh and so achingly familiar – but I felt no connection to this town I spent my childhood in. Walking around, I knew each place so well, but no happy memories sprung themselves from my subconscious to whisk me into the winds of nostalgia; only a relief that I no longer lived here.
The darkness, away from the murky, light polluted skies of my new city, cloaked me in an anonymity I crave. The moon sent its fingers out into the clouds, covering them in a light the colour of bleached bones.
I felt unusually content, wandering through the fields, and the feeling stretched into today; though I have a suspicion it’s just a kind of numb neutrality. I still haven’t really done any work.
Back to London on Sunday, dear reader; do not fear that your pig has gone to pasture. Once I return we’ll stop with all this self reflecting bollox. I’m glad we’ve got that sorted.