Nostalgia

I spent the weekend at a family wedding in York, which is where I grew up. Due to an unexpected turn, I found myself within stamping distance of a few landmarks from my teens, whose memories are particularly clear from having transcribed all those diary entries.

I walked around a particular neighbourhood, taking in the following sights:

1. Kirsty's grandfather's house. I was dying to knock on the door and be reminded what it was like inside, but I doubt he's there any more. The distinctive windows were enough. It probably wouldn't be the same inside anyway.

2. The house of My First Requited Love, who I met later on in 1985. Judging by the car outside, I reckon his father still lives there. That was odd. I was tempted to knock on, but what would I have said? I have some strong memories of that house.

3. Philip's house. Or rather, Philip's parents' house, as he long since left home. This one I couldn't resist: I rang the doorbell. His sister was there, and she kindly let me in to relive old times. It's barely changed at all. It's an enormous house and has always been full of Philip's many family members and various other hangers-on. Philip's mother is the kind of woman who loves to gather people around her and look after them all, and she has the space to do it in. It's one of the reasons I used to love going there - such a warm and chaotic sense of inclusion.

I was almost expecting to see the soot stains on the ceiling, from where Philip threw a large tub of turps into the fire when we were redecorating his bedroom (what he claimed was that it would be fine, what he got was a fireball and a layer of black smoke, which lingered - trapped in the high ceiling - for weeks), but they seem to have repainted since then. When I was 14 and still worshiping Philip mostly from afar, I used to cycle up and down the road hoping to catch a glimpse of him through the windows. Ah, the obsessions of youth.


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