Friday, October 24, 2008
Right, I'm moving back to London. I don't have anywhere to live, or the means to support that lifestyle but for me the countryside is over. I've come to realise why I left in the first place.
Why you may ask? Because of a phone conversation I had yesterday. I was talking to the president of an event that I was thinking of writing about. Now my old classmates are still involved in this event, and I think about a dozen of the people I went to school with have tried it at one time or another.
I grew up in the countryside, in a small village outside this town, but if anything I spent more time in this town than at home. I had my first pint in a pub there (Worthington for £1!), my first snog with a girl (called Melody, came from South Africa, tasted of cigarettes), my first driving lesson (in an ancient Ford escort with my dad in the car park), my first proper job (teaching disadvantaged kids how to use the interspaz) I even did my first bad thing there (it involved bangers that I'd brought back from France and a dog poo).
In this tiny town almost every street has a memory for me, of being in the Scouts, walking over to girls houses to play spin the bottle or eating hot chips on a cold night.
Yet with all of this, I discovered while talking to the president of the event that I'm not local enough to get involved. Yup, I'm not quite local enough, and with that all the reasons why I was so desperate to get out of the countrside in the first place came rushing back.