Sunday, 8 July 2012


I went for stroll near mum's old house, on the morning it wasn't raining, with the idea of making a little photo-reportage thing on the difference between English and French suburbia. This was a good starting point. The Colehill cricket club. An unremarkable 1960's building of surgical leg coloured brick, surrounded by gently waving ancient oaks. Many days did I spend lounging on the grass, the gentle thwack of a cricket ball encountering a shed: tea, crustless fish paste sandwiches and scones. Actually this is a fabrication. I never went to watch cricket, it being an utter mystery to me, but I did go to the discos there when I was about fifteen.
On one occasion I remember feeling particularly irresistible. Dressed in beige flares so wide it was actually impossible to walk properly, and a long collared nylon shirt decorated with vintage cars in beige and brown, I hung languidly around Steven Combes, hoping he might ask me to dance. He didn't, no surprise there; he was probably boring anyway with his deep brown eyes, curly hair and broad shoulders . . .hello Steven wherever you are.

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