Stuck behind a Ford Transit
Every time it braked the reversing and fog lights came on.
I made good time over the M62. I didn’t exceed third gear for most of it. It was raining.
Storm Claudia is closing my trip off with a bang. The Stena Estrid is delayed an hour tomorrow. RTÉ is predicting Ireland sinking beneath the waves. And I just wish people would put their headlights on when driving in heavy rain.
My trip to blighty was in aid of my parents. I try and see them once a year and drive over in Slimer. I like driving. Every year I forget that more people live in Greater Manchester and surrounding cities than in Ireland, and they all want to be on the road at the same time as me. Go away.
Memories of York were dredged from the scum at the bottom of my memory barrel. Where I am I still bitter about some changes that happened when I lived here, and changes that happened when I didn’t. No longer will I wait for friends outside Woolworths before going to the Odeon. Instead I’ll walk around muttering about how I remember when all this used to be fields. And when did the York buses go all goth?
York is for the tourists. I am sad.
The surreal experience ended there as I was not required to sleep in my childhood room. My parents have moved on, and it is very much their home now. I still knew to duck my head walking down the stairs, while smacking the wall of the box-room. The piano still played Moonlight Sonata a few tones south of concert pitch. And the original 1930s interior doors still had the handles a fraction too high.
I admired the red-brick houses on the Fulford Road, and imagined myself moving back home. Quickly realising I was admiring them from a busy road in standstil traffic. And then longing for my house on the mountain.