Yesterday there were a number of police raids in three areas of England, one of these places was my town. Of course I'm saddened by this event; by what's caused these events; and by the cause behind the cause of these events. And that where I grew up has changed so totally over my life, which has never bothered me because Change is the only Constant. Before I became too ill, everywhere that could be mapped, was logged up here — I hated it of course, resented it, but I savoured it.
With my parents it is a different story:
They met on the daily bus to Wycombe in the early sixties where they had joined the design school, they discovered themselves there, and they were involved in the growing hub of music and style that was 'swinging', then 'way-out', then 'hippy'. The town that nurtured this was renowned for its furniture industry, and its twisting 16th century streets and slums, at turns conservative, insular. They chose to stay here because my sister and I had arrived and the town was close enough to the surrounding countryside, there was a conscious decision to join in an ethnic mix that wasn't found in other towns, and is close enough to London to be not feel provincial.
My Father is an odd person; a brilliant self-taught musician but also a very decent designer, and resolutely self-employed. There has always been a certain desperation to his various ventures. Growing up under the regime meant never knowing what was going to happen next or whether we'd ever go on a normal holiday. People have let him get away with his work-mania because he is a joy know in other ways.
Last night was bad, we hadn't got together for a while so a curry at the best place around should've been a treat. But he just couldn't let the terrorist news go, it was eating him up: He was talking as if he'd been had, all that time he'd put into living in Wycombe he felt his trust had been abused by the Asians of the town, his voice getting louder all the time — it was disgusting really, and embarrassing because I know how much love and patience there still is in my Dad.
I'm glad they are going to be moving out of the town next year, I hope it'll return the person I remember.
Friday, August 11, 2006
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3 comments:
I wonder what makes people feel like everything is all or none. Why can't your father embrace all the good memories of his area, the good people. What is the need to suddenly feel like it was all a lie because of some. It is almost as if he never felt the love, not totally anyway, from the beginning, like was he just living the image without the substance?
I don't mean to talk bad about your dad, he is just the example here. Sorry.
I wonder what makes people feel like everything is all or none. Why can't your father embrace all the good memories of his area, the good people. What is the need to suddenly feel like it was all a lie because of some. It is almost as if he never felt the love, not totally anyway, from the beginning, like was he just living the image without the substance?
I don't mean to talk bad about your dad, he is just the example here. Sorry.
Why can't he? Exactly why this is so sad, in fact I blame the people he's fallen in with — just like when parents get a bad feeling about their precious one's freinds, I have that with the aspiring middle-class dinner-party possibly wife-swapping late-fifty something, Daily Mail/Daily Express reading set he's getting influenced by. They're just as toxic as the plane-bombers . . . always ready for the quickest route for a laugh . . . bunch of fucking knee-jerks.
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