At the Routemasters Cafe

On the channel ferry crossing and our driver has given me the golden ticket; a voucher which provides entrance to the exclusive drivers cafe and lounge. “Cheap breakfast, free tea...” he sells it to me. An opportunity to go deep undercover so naturally I'm skeptical; however will I pass for a truck driver? I'm slim and I've got mud on my jeans. They are all wearing shorts with a podge about them. I'm quite clearly a roadie, not a driver.

Up at the lounge I nervously stroll in and find no resistance, which eases my worry. 'Adopt the long-drive vibe,' I'm telling myself and hand over the ticket for a meal. Magic words stream from the counter guys mouth: “how many hash browns?” Don't mind if I do! The meal is less than half the price than that in the public cafe downstairs.

Upon taking a seat at one of the many formica tables and settling into a couple of bites of an early warm breakfast, I find the scene to be sullen and silent. All the drivers are practically asleep with their faces hung low towards their plates and both their elbows resting on the tables. They sit on their own, or in the occasional pair, and they do not converse. It's a strange world, being on the road; a world of long, late nights and long, late drives; endless stops at awful service stations with a collection of smelly socks burning a hole in the backpack. These guys understand that pain. We're all desperately trying to hold onto humanity, but are moving too much and too quickly to keep a tight enough grip. Our main concerns; where is the next laundrette and how many hours of sleep can I manage today?

In fact, the drivers lounge is less exciting than I'd thought it would be. What about it had enraptured me so anyway? I meet no-one and am offered no road stories by other creepy loners, much to my dissappointment. Here we all are, living out our private lives in public, and waiting for the next stint to take us that little bit closer (or further away?) from where we are headed. Destination is everything, and destination changes constantly, almost daily. How are we to cope with life on the road? I worry that I'll become to aquainted with this life and then staying home will become impossible; that the bug will develop into an itch and home-life will never be quite the same again. A first world problem, I know, but a problem nonetheless.

At The Market

At the market and it’s raining an annoying and thin rain. Through the rusty, battered stalls I wander slowly, humming to myself and feeling good. Why let rain ruin my shopping trip for nothing? From the butcher’s van I hear the guy with the microphone up-selling his wares: “There’s eight, there’s ten, twelve, fourteen, there’s sixteen pounds worth for a fiver.”

“That sounds good. I’ll take it.”

“I don’t blame ya.”

There’s not actually anything on my shopping list. I’m just scraping around a stall of second hand nonsense and stumble upon the figure of a white ghost. It’s plastic and it’s total trash. I turn on the switch and watch as it morphs from one colour shade to another. Yep, it’s another piece of useless junk that I want. I lean over to ask the stall holder how much it’s gonna cost.

“Don’t worry about it. You can have it. Things like that I just...I give them away.”

I’m going to get it for free, but can’t accept that straight off. “How does that work for business then?” I ask him, wanting to know how he pays rent on the stall if he doesn’t accept money as payment.

He laughs. “Well, consider it my good deed for the day.” I’ve not seen that guy and his stall of general tat since, so I guess he did one too many good deeds, and gave away one too many items for free. Generally, the market is made up of the same twenty stalls, all of which I recognise as regulars. There is something to say for the generosity of complete strangers; when small acts of kindness are performed simply because they can be.

The idea of doing a good deed everyday stuck with me, and I actively tried to do the same for weeks afterwards. I’d pushed wheelchair users along, handed out liberated food at a festival, bought rounds, shared dope, given out guitar strings, returned a lost passport and caught a lady when she fell backwards down the stairs at the train station – and that was all in the first week of consciously trying to do good deeds. To do these things – totally selflessly – had actually left me with a sense of pride and made life seem so much more worthwhile, considering the tininess of some of the acts I’d performed.

So, don’t seek to do good deeds, but let them come to you, and follow them through. It’ll be good for you; for the soul and the mind and your place on this planet living this life.

At The Cafe

In the Cafe at the end of my road and I’m jet-lagged to hell. I can barely comprehend what time it is, how tired I am or even where I am. Peace and quiet seem so appealing as I huddle over breakfast at the corner table. Elvis’ ‘Suspicious Minds’ comes over the stereo, sounding through the luminous jackets and elderly guys arguing amongst themselves. The counter lady, Cathy, dressed in a green and white striped apron, joins as Elvis sings the first line: “We’re caught in a trap.”

She looks over at a big guy tucking into a fresh omelette. He smiles, still chewing, and sings the next line back to her: “We can’t walk out.” She smiles. Maybe something is going on between the two?

Suddenly, on Cathy’s ok-go, half the cafe sings the next line, all jovial and gleeful: “Because I love you too much baby!” I can’t help but grin, which eases the pain I’m in. Soon enough – a couple of lines later – the whole place is singing and tapping their cutlery out-of-time on the tables. It’s quite the change from the usual blank stares and slurping from tea cups in-between the grating silence, and it’s more than welcomed by the clientele.

The singing isn’t exactly harmonious, but it sure makes the day feel more in harmony. A little comfort through humour and the world seems back up the right way.

Busy Busy

For two long years I was totally unemployed, and unemployable. I spent most of my time at home alone pondering existence, wondering why life seemed to be passing me by so quickly, ignoring any action or interest to be found outside of my four small walls. I was probably depressed. I hardly exercised. I smoked too much. I had hit a rut.

      Then came the invite to start driving my friends band on tour. I'd always wanted to tour, and had gotten a couple of short trips under my belt before accepting their offer. I had always thought that my life would come to life once I got on the road and started chewing up some miles, meeting some people, staying out late and seeing some places I'd never seen before. It was like my whole life was on pause, ready and waiting to go out on the road. I adapted quickly to the sporadic touring the band was doing, retiring home every few days or weeks to rest up and contemplate my experience. I had that time to let it sink in, and to deal with this new everything in my own way; by writing it down and by thinking it over.

      That band now seems to be doing more and more successfully. We just got back from a six-day trip round Germany where every gig was sold out and every audience member there to hear them. We're just wrapping up a two-week UK tour which has been pretty much the same. It seems there is no bounds to their meteoric rise to being a successful indie band. I think back fondly to those first few shows, where we'd arrive early and visit a couple of sights in the city before calmly heading over to the gig. Trying to sleep in a freezing cold van was hell at the time, but seems romantic and part of our initial hardship now. Driving all through the night, a coffee cup perched firmly on the dashboard was taxing then, but sounds like bliss now.

      Now things seem to be moving so fast I can't get a moment to reflect and to understand what is happening. By the time I get back to my room proper we'll have been away for three and a half months solid, with only two days off and five travelling days. It's a crazy schedule we are keeping, but, as I keep telling people it makes up for doing nothing for those two years before that. I just wish I had some time to reflect and soak it up along the way. It's all I can do to keep an up-to-date journal.

Billy Bragg Live at Greyfriars Bus Station

As I took the escalator into our beloved bus station today I imagined Billy Bragg playing a gig in there one day. I let myself run with the fantasy; quickly deciding where the stage would be, what the crowd would look like and even the songs he would play. I could already hear his familiar reverberated Essex vocal delivery and the aggressive down-stroke guitar playing, and it sounded like heaven. Greyfriars is probably the only place in town where you ever hear people sing, and they’re never singing Billy Bragg songs; they’re singing generic pop with lyrics that would fail to engage even the most culturally-stunted among us. I guess that says something about the town. Billy Bragg could come and help us out.

                Greyfriars has a long history of smelling like urine and resembling the “jaws of hell,” as one architect put it. Its past has been blighted by stalactites dripping from the ceiling, of the car park alongside being too dangerous to use and as a building that is utterly useless to anyone with a wheelchair. "It is an ugly, malevolent building brimming with inner hostility and low aspiration," an ex-Northamptonite so perfectly put it. It certainly does feel hostile, perhaps because the roof covers and engulfs the building in a constant shade of darkness. And the low aspiration? That's just Northampton for you, the go-nowhere town all go-nowhere towns look towards. These are all truths, but Greyfriars is our bus station and I'll be sad to see it go when the new North Gate bus station opens later in the year.

                What will go in its empty space has not yet been decided, but we can trust our Borough Council to fuck up again so brilliantly that the next building will cut just as many corners and be just as much of behemoth as Greyfriars currently is. That said, the place needs to go; it only serves to damn the town now. People have a bad opinion of it. You rarely see anyone smile in there.

                So why Billy Bragg? Since day one he has supported and celebrated British-ness and so has become an icon and symbol of this country – he is a jewel. All through his thirty-plus years of service he has encouraged people to think, to engage and to share information. No doubt he’s been through Greyfriars at one point or other when he ran round East Northamptonshire getting Riff-Raff together. The people passing through Greyfriars on any given afternoon could do with something to engage with and something to think about; something way above and beyond whether the number 7 will be late or whether 50p Lil will corner them into given her a cigarette and dribbling on their shoes.

                In an age of bands playing sessions in any and all manner of strange venues Billy Bragg has been doing just that for many years; standing on plastic chairs to sing at miner’s benefits and at punk garden parties. Greyfriars would be perfect. How about it Bill? Make a decision and come down to play the closing party. Please, I beg of you, save us from ourselves for a few moments and help us to celebrate yet another fuck-up by the borough council.

Beerwolf Books, Falmouth - "We sell books and beer"

A quiet moment. Taken from their website.

Beerwolf Books in Falmouth is a bit hidden away. If you keep your eyes peeled you may see notice it tucked up a side alley off Market Street, but you'd be more likely to miss it. I wandered past, caught sight of the signage and had to stop to do a double take. I came back later; passing the smokers at the front door, ascending the staircase, noting the book shop, ordering half a Flensburger and sitting down to people watch in quiet.

     It's a cavernous space - which is made all the more strange because it is on the top floor. All the exposed beams, the ancient, rickety chairs and the bare-naked floorboards perhaps help this feeling of space along? One bench was so ancient and so rickety that the seat aimed down and I kept slipping forward. Oh, the charm of the place! Between the creaks and the hushed mid-afternoon chatting I was already in love with the place. And I hadn't yet checked out the books. I'd already spent too much so only had a quick browse so as to not be too tempted, though the prices were more than acceptable. A good selection; though maybe too predictable? The framed posters of Bukowski, Ginsberg and Crumb around the bar looked great - were great - but are safe now; they are accepted as an 'alternative canon.' I'd have preferred framed shots of Gorky, Selvon and Stevie Smith; the real alternative. The girl on the table opposite looked so happy to be in a bookshop with a drink that she pulled out her notebook and scribbled three whole pages straight off. Brilliant.

     I came back on the Saturday night to find the place packed, with people practically queuing for table space to play cards. We sat down to play too, but found our pack had only 47 cards, each one of which showed the signs of many hours manhandling. The room was warm and cosy, whilst outside it rained heavily. The vibe was friendly and bashful, all waves and smiles and eyes. I sat against the wall to look around - evidently the evening clientele were almost exclusively twenty-somethings.

     "Have you noticed the action figures? asked Joe, pointing up at the rafters and above the bar. I hadn't, but once I looked I could see more and more. A nice touch. The atmosphere stayed cosy, even without an open fire, and as I sat back it dawned on me that I may be in one of the greatest pubs ever. Beer and books - a good combination, in moderation. A traditional pub with a modern and forward-thinking glint in its eye.

Morning in Disturbia

Every morning upon waking when I’m lying there, alone, again, finding the guts to get out of bed I’m gripped by two thoughts. They are so opposite and so conflicting that the bafflement they propose leaves me stunted, with my face down and scrunched against the pillow, bare arm flesh wrapped above my head. Being hungover - understandably - only makes it worse; it only serves to amplify these thoughts.

                My first thought is the worrying one. It’s negative, down-beat, heart wrenching; but it is always first. It’s the fact that I’m shocked that I’ve woken up to another day. It’s almost as if I expected to die during the night without consciously thinking about it. Isn’t that depressing? – to find yourself so surprised that you’ve made it through to start another day. “I’m alive,” I will generally mumble to myself.

                The second I don’t find so troubling. In fact, it’s probably testament to my positive get-up-and-go attitude. As I shuffle into a slouched-but-seated position I’ll think ‘another day to get on with,’ as I pull something from the bedside stack to read. Whether or not I waste the day is another question; not one for you or for me to answer, as much as we may want to.

                I’m probably not the best person to have around for the benefit of my sanity. I feel there is a constant duel deep inside somewhere; the desire to live, but an acceptance of death simultaneously; a voice that screams to be sober and well, but another that wants to get so stoned I’ll become part of the sofa; someone that wants to travel, but to be home also; someone that wants to talk until I get a headrush, but also to take my silence and never to talk again, ever.

                This, dear reader, is morning in disturbia. A person in constant conflict with their own life.

There's an Island on a River...

There’s an island on a river, accessible only by a few rickety old steps, on which I first met my tribe. A solitary patch of muddy grass. One tree leaning exhausted over the running water. A small weather beaten town sloped up, and away from the shore, with castle ruins illuminated at the highest point. An unlikely and unique location to get wasted at the weekend, protected fiercely by those in the know, but still on display and open, easy to find.
                      Home was far away but my cousin was making me feel welcome, introducing me to the locals; Angus, the journalist; Suzanne, the baker; and Simon, a lost ex-marine, about to leave on his own travels. A rag-tag bunch of country minstrels thrown together because there was nowhere and no-one else. In small towns you have to do that; you have to befriend everyone, there is no space to be selective and picky. It’s truly all for one and one for all. To find a group of people so alike in their space and time is rare, and in the same small town even rarer. Here were close friends, whom I’d never met before, but who treated me with a welcoming hospitality befit more than family.
                       "Angus never smiles - look," my cousin said, pointing at him. Angus was smiling.
                      "It's a good night for it," he said. "Can't you feel it?" he asked, wrapping his arms round himself and shaking to show he was freezing. The air was white-grey.
                      "I'm feeling it," Suzanne piped in, jogging on the spot. She was looking up at the night sky. Simon joined her, bouncing from one foot to the other like a wrestler.
                      We all danced a little tribal kinda thing on the island, laughing from the ridiculousness of it all; a crew of midnight people writhing and exercising some demons. "Shake off. Shake off," Suzanne was saying, and we all followed, spazzing out. Angus slipped on the mud and fell down into it. He laughed. We helped him up, handing him the bottle as he got on his feet. "Ah!" he gulped. Things continued in much the same vein; moving around to stay warm.
                      What didn’t we talk about, that would be the question to ask. I felt not only as if I had known them, but they had known me for years. We were one and the same, I realised; lost, out in the world, looking for something to do, waiting around fretting and thinking about the future, driving ourselves mad in the process. Spending a lot of time alone, and a lot of time surrounded by people – an upsetting balance which seems to confuse one beyond even sociability. A tribe of worriers, we were, battling each trouble as it appeared, unaided, twisted on drugs and books.
                      At that point in life I could have not met anyone so in tune with my own resonance. Another droning sitar to play with my own. Imagine meeting a whole bunch of people with the same troubled temperament, the same negative outlook and who also had ten rough, bitten-down-to-the-nub fingernails. All self-effacing, self-contained, self-sacrificing. It was like meeting oneself in every respect, apart from looks. I thought the timing was particularly strange, almost other-worldly; as if we were meant to meet that once, share our similar souls and never meet again. It was cathartic, that’s for sure.
                      We drank and talked, smoked and drank, talked and smoked, with the river sloshing past, calmly running away with the worries we set adrift that evening. For me, it was a lack of direction, of purpose; always spending more time dreaming and thinking than actually doing. “You’ll figure it out,” they used to say, but I still haven’t managed. It’s not enough for me to simply live. I have always felt there was something bigger and better out there waiting for me. I’ll never find what I’m trying to look for – mostly likely it doesn’t exist, it’s just a vicious circle that I’ve been chasing. Simon understood. “I’ve come to the conclusion now that the void is only filled by having a partner, that’s the one thing I’ve always missed out on, being in the force for so many years.”
                      “Same, but the harder you search the more impossible that seems.”
                      “Tell me about it!”
                      “Contentment only comes momentarily. Happiness is so far off its unachievable. If you have a brain and use it you’ll never be happy again.”
                      But what about those people who were around whilst I wondered what I was missing out on? What about my friends who were uninterested by travel and experience – those who were content to get on with things; to live undaunted and un-haunted by these troubles? What effect must it have had on them if their friend was being constantly dragged down by his lofty dreams and ambitious hopes? This startling thought racked me. People live differently. People live their own lives. I may strive for something more but they were happy already. How could I be more like them? How could I shake this off?
                      That question is still unanswered. Things are easier now. You learn to live with your troubles, as impossible as that had once seemed. I’ll never forget the revelations of that evening, and I hope the tribe won’t either. Maybe it was a commonplace and regular occurrence for them to actually talk about the things that were bugging them? It wasn’t for me; I was a professional bottler, stashing onto these things and sitting on the lid until I could feel it being forced to pop open. No longer. Now, if engaged properly, I can admit the worst things and talk you to death. You’ll want to get far, far away. Now, you know the small Island and the running water you can blame for that.
                      We never stayed in touch. We didn't even exchange contact details. They'll be out there now - getting on with things. I'm only a faint, fading memory they may recall from time to time. It's impossible and best not to even try and re-live our only meeting, it'll only disappoint. Better to hark back and think of it fondly on occasion. Better still to look forward - life is too fleeting to backtrack and sigh about it all. We may or may not meet again - we may or may not have already passed on the street and not recognised each other.


There’s an island on a river, accessible only by a few rickety old steps, on which I met Lea. “Lost?” her voice asked out of nowhere. I spun around. Then through a shaky bush she appeared; brushing twigs, leaves and petals from her hair. Bits of plant life.
                      “Kind of,” I told her, starting off a friendship that flourished and finished within three short hours. We'll never meet again, I'm sure of it. She’d just landed from Mars, or the Land of Oz, or a planet further out than either of those. Somewhere exotic and other-worldly, that's for sure. Somewhere I'd never been and would never go, it seemed. Somewhere intriguing.
                      "Well then, what are you doing here on my island? I'm the only Robinson Crusoe on this baby," she said, by way of an introduction.
                      "Or Selkirk?" I said.
                      "Who?" She screwed up her face, but quickly morphed back to a careless grin.
                      "It doesn't matter."
                      "I've been coming here for years," she revealed, "and I've never seen another person down here. How did you find it?"
                      "I saw the alley and walked down there, noticed the gate and ended up here. Kind of an accident, really."
                      "A happy accident!" she smiled. "It's a bit tucked away for anyone to find. And you just happened upon it?" The tone of her voice said she didn't believe me, but it was the truth.
                      "Yep."
                      "Yeah right."
                      "Honestly. Seriously. I'm not even from here - how would I have known about it? I'm telling you I stumbled upon it. And what a find! I think I'll bring people to show next time."
                      She slapped me playfully on my forearm. "No you won't."
                      We sat down whilst I rolled a cigarette. I folded the packet away. She took it and rolled one for herself. She must have had somewhere else to be, but like me, happened to find herself in limbo. This was her city, I slowly sussed out. Better not to ruin the moment with personal facts or passions. Better to have a simple verbal trade. We both steered away from talking personal, as if it were an unwritten rule, choosing instead to exchange knowledge and show off our interests. If I’m away from home, anywhere, and I meet a local its questions straight away. They have the key to the local knowledge – their local knowledge. Their keen sense of humour, their anecdotes, their perspective on the areas exports, imports, problems, triumphs, or lingo, where the parks are – always very important, and whether the library is well stocked.
                      Lea knew it all. Bit by bit she answered my questions about this city I hardly knew. She loved it. "Why go anywhere else? What do you fucking want? We've got laser quest here, and three Smith's," she laughed. She gestured, waving her hand flat out in front of her as she rolled through her animated ramblings. She was gutsy, and loud, brash, daring, unable to keep track of time - all the things I never could be. That, I must have recognised in her then. Lea and I, like Huck Finn and Jim, hid out on the island, talking away.
                      After a while it dawned on me that not only was this girl’s whole aura alien, but she was like an encyclopaedia when it came to this particular place. Her local history was impeccable, her geography flawless and her interest totally unwavering. "See that place over there," she pointed across the river. "Pottery," she added simply. "That one - look at the windows. Completely symmetrical." It was - it was clearly an expensive build intended to display affluence and wealth. Those who benefitted from the industrial revolution were so predictable. "A cotton house. Storage. There is one identical to that in Manchester, I'm told. Though I've never seen it."
                      Lea and I were different. Whereas I thought I would understand the world better by experience, by travel, she was satisfied and more-than-happy to stay in one place, seeming to gain her world-view safely from there-out. I tried to search out-to-in, always returning home from my travels to question why I’d returned. I always wanted more, I could never satisfy myself. I tried to channel “that feeling.” I thought it could be likened to a pressure valve; that you could let off that steam by playing drums, writing, reading, riding my bike, talking. I had all these outlets for that steam that seemed to be constantly building up and up. Yet it changed nothing. The steam valve was broken; it could blow and shatter at any moment, but it never did.
                      Three hours passed and we were still sat on this lost island, an inner city river moved gently by - cleaner now than it had ever been, but still thick and dark. She stood up first, brushing the crusty twigs from the seat of her jeans. I gazed down her legs slowly for a moment before waking myself up with a shake and standing up next to her. She'd gone quiet all of a sudden. What had happened? "Alright?" I asked, giving her a gentle nudge with my elbow.
                      "Oh yeah. Fine," she said, also waking up to the world beside the island and the two of us.
                      She was one of those people who rubbed off on you. Her enthusiasm was hard to ignore.
                      "You saved me from today," she said.
                     "Likewise."


There’s an island on a river, accessible only by a few rickety old steps, where music brought us together. I'll never make it back there, but that night sticks vividly in my memory forever. Between a rock and a hard place it is lodged firmly, and I want it to stay there. I enjoyed many nights of roughly the same union through live music but that one night was particularly special. Hospitality made it so.
                      The venue for our meeting and coming together was a disused rowing club, taken over for one night only. I don't recall doing much socialising until the band had finished, but we were there together in a beautiful unison, socialising without using our own words. Their lyrics were the only words we uttered, and they broke the ice well. If we all believed in their words so unwaveringly then we must have at least that in common, which seemed good enough for all of us. We were all thoroughly preoccupied by the music, which seemed to pull us all into a tight, unspoken bond.
                      Had the electrics have been out it wouldn't have mattered - any member of the band could have sang any one of their opening lines and we would have all taken it up and finished the song off acapella. Probably making instrument noises with our mouths anyway. Our eyes closed, our faces turned towards the ceiling, fists clenched, pounded against our hearts, or upwards in the air, arms thrown over strangers shoulders. A good sing-along is a really cheap thrill, but an undeniable one. It gives a sense of unity, of something that can transcend.
                      I was in such a good mood, so excited and revved-up, running between people and shaking hands with everyone. I must have introduced myself to every person at the gig in turn. Very out-of-character and rare. From time-to-time all the elements are just right, all the stars align and shine through an overly, outwardly-friendly glow for me. People asked how we had ended up there. Others offered floor space for the night or shared their beer, before even introducing themselves. With each person I learnt something new about civilisation, and in turn about myself. Meeting people was easy, and you suddenly realise there is a world beyond oneself; that the world is much bigger than your own bubble. It was the first time I’d come across that thought, and I remember being floored by the revelation. It clicked. The un-learned became learnt.
                      We all shared a passion for the same band, which was obvious to us all. But above and beyond that it seemed to be the same lyrics and bands that turned us on, allowing us a collective agreement on music, politics, travel, what we felt we were missing and our outlook on life, whatever that may have been at the time. Our tastes had driven us into becoming similar minded people. It seems cheesy to have the lesson that hospitality is important appear at a punk rock gig, but it’s true. Cometbus couldn’t have written it better. “Have you got a place to stay?” people asked, until something had been arranged in some hippie bus with a French couple. I slept on a bench by the river in the end, which is another story.
                      For the next couple of days we followed the band through rural countryside, singing with them and crashing wherever we fell. Vague or non-existent plans seemed to magic themselves together, proof that humans can adapt, that I can adapt, and that people are more welcoming and friendly than you'd ever believe. You should never under-estimate the help and support offered to you once you are far away from home, and out on a limb with no plans and no clue. Things can work themselves out.
                      Why then is the modern world against that hospitality? Could it be that it is not the norm – that it is not safe and comfortable? It’s unstable and wavy. Best really to find a job and stay home in the evenings. Best not to think but to simply live, or not live? Back then, instability seemed oh-so appealing. It was somehow honourable.
                      I’ve put people up on various sofas over the years, but people have put me up plenty more. After your mid-twenties you don’t tend to want to crash in an endless succession of uncomfortable, makeshift beds. As I approach a whole winter of self-imposed homelessness I wonder how tired of it I'll be by the time spring comes round. It's likely I'll want to settle a little and get a steady job in a nice cafe somewhere. To try and adhere to a more common way of existence; earning money to live more comfortably and learning to be more content, rather than wanting, wanting all the damn time. The majority of people go on holiday, proper, with their other half once or twice a year. They relax. It'll be Spain or any old English beach to start with. The Caribbean or the Mediterranean for the honeymoon. Florida or Butlins once the kids arrive. The discomfort of traipsing around town all day, dragging your bag behind you and waiting for your host to finish work is not too appealing, I can see that, but it’s second nature now; benefitting from someone’s else’s welcoming hospitality, a second nature I ought never to have desired and lived through, but gently allowed.

 

 

* Taken from issue #22 - 'Life Lessons to Ignore'