At the weekend I took a little trip to York, the first place I lived after I left home in 1990.
29 years is a long time not to see a place and it was weird how little I remembered – The way the road curves to the right by
It will always be the place I first fell in love with and had my heart well and truly broken by a girl (now like me,
I didn’t make it out to the University campus or the old Terry’s chocolate factory on Bishopthorpe Road that may have sparked more recollections (Cuddle Queen, Minusbat, Patrick, Steerpike, Kev the alcoholic and our band Dead Flowers, Monty and Psychemedia, The Butter Mountain Boys, first hearing Nevermind…….
The ghosts of my early adult years had mocked me enough with their absence.
Memory is a strange beast, so much lost forever in the ether, more still transfigured by the retelling until I’m not sure if I actually remember it or just remember the way I’ve told the story and have no way to discriminate between the two.
Wandering those streets left me feeling melancholy, mourning over joys and sorrows I can no longer recall, but whose absence felt like loss.
Thankful for where my life has traveled since then and to Chi, who I could share at least some of the feelings it evoked with this time.
Luckily, much like 29 years ago, there are pubs every 200 meters, so I was able to wash it all away.