Don't Look Back

"Let's get out of London this weekend." Having thought about the prospect for the last few minutes as I finely chopped an onion for our shepherd's pie, I put the thought out to Liam, threw the contents of my chopping board into the sizzling saucepan on the hob and waited for a response.

Ahead of us was one lone, clutter-free weekend, which had escaped being made part of our extraordinarily busy summer schedule, which was seemingly packed, fit-to-burst with weekend weddings, birthdays and dutiful trips to see family.

"Sure, what do you have in mind?" Liam replied, washing the potatoes over the sink.

"How about Brighton?" I suggested.

We'd been to Brighton a couple of times recently. Lovely seaside town. I couldn't get enough of the place. I could just see myself pottering about the bohemian cafes, silver shops and buying rock and candyfloss along the promenade. Problem was, every time I visited I felt more inclined to move there. Liam, who insists regularly that 'we can't say we've lived in London until we've lived at least a year in Zone 2', avoids any chance I might find to whinge about central London. It was for this reason, I suspected, that his expression looked less than thrilled about the idea. 

"Kew Gardens?" He offered.

"That's not out the city - it's near Richmond." I threw the lamb mince into the pan, and poked it with a wooden spoon for a bit.

With no car, we were always going to be a bit limited finding somewhere outside of London, where we can return the same day, and still make the journey worth doing. After shooting down suggestions like, Southend, Bournemouth and then Cornwall- to which I received a snooty, ‘you do know that it takes seven hours or so by train, don't you?’- a thought popped in my mind.

"How about going back to Bognor Regis?" I asked, turning the meat with my spoon until the pink slowly disappeared and it turned a light brown. "You know, visit the little bungalow I used to go to when I was little...?"

"Bognor?" He asked doubtfully.

"- It's not as crap as you might think..." I replied defensively, before he could launch into a speech detailing all the reasons we shouldn't go to Bognor. "The place I went to was sweet and it had a lovely beach - large pebbles, not gritty sand in your socks." I added tactically. "There's Arundel Castle nearby... and Chichester a little way up. Besides, I think I'd quite like to go back, it's been almost eight years."

"Okay..." He said as he turned the gas on full whilst flicking the lighter with his thumb simultaneously. The hob jumped into action and he pulled his hand away quickly, before placing a lid firmly on the saucepan of potatoes.

"I've been thinking a lot about the old bungalow recently. I’m not sure why..." My sentence drifted off into my own thoughts for a while as I absentmindedly stirred the meat and stared pointedly at the wall tiles by the cooker. A couple of minutes of silence passed before I asked quietly, "Do you think a lot will have changed?"

"I don't know. But I should imagine so." Liam turned to face me. "Look, I don't mind going at all..." He wrapped his arms gently around me. "But are you absolutely sure you want to go back? Might not be as good as you remember."

It was a difficult one. Should you ever go back? 

What if I went back to the little white bungalow and the familiar smells and sights had not only lost their sparkle and excitement, but with my critical adult eyes, what if I cruelly focused on the cracks and not the charm of the place? I pondered quietly over what to do, weighing up the pros and cons throughout our shepherd's pie dinner (which turned out wonderfully), wondering right through a rather interesting documentary on seals, and by the time I was stood by the sink, brushing my teeth before bed, I still hadn't made a decision on what to do. So, as it's best to do with all rather difficult decisions, I slept on it.

I woke up bright and early on Saturday morning and pottered into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Sleeping on a problem always works (failing that it’s a good cup of tea). But before I'd even switched the kettle on, I was sure I knew what to do.

----

The train pulled into the station. I looked excitedly out of the window, and squeezed Liam's hand as the elaborate Victorian station roof came into view.

"We're here!" I squealed.

I'd been gazing out the window for the entire journey, watching the high rise buildings lower gradually as we'd left London, until you couldn't see buildings at all, just miles and miles of green, open fields. Upon my squeeze, Liam opened his eyes and pulled out his earphones, for a better look. Fumbling in my handbag for our tickets, we left the carriage, following the mass of Londoners who had also escaped London to see the sea, along the platform to the ticket barriers.

"Now let's get this straight. I'm not trawling 'round a million shops today. Okay?" Liam said as we walked down the hill towards the town. "We're here to get out of the city, don't forget."

"Okay... Maybe just a few." I winked at him.

We picked up a late breakfast; two coffees, a steak and ale pasty for Liam, the vegan sausage roll for me, and ready for the beach we headed down to eat them sat amongst the pebbles. Passing through a narrow side street, Liam stopped briefly outside a shop that was selling alternative posters and postcards.

"These look good. Do you mind if we stop for a minute?" He asked me. 

Taking his coffee from him so he could flick through the boxes that had been displayed outside the shop front, I resisted a sly comment pointing out that we were here to get out of the city- not shop, holding back purely in case we passed any jewellery shops later. Walking down the street slightly, I found a quiet spot near one of those cafes with the tables and chairs sprawled across the road and moved my attention away from Liam who was excitedly plucking out posters of The Smiths album covers, to watch Brighton go by.

I slurped from one of our coffees, glad I hadn't gone to Bognor Regis. I had promised myself not to mention once to Liam how much I'd love to move to Brighton; how it was so much more relaxed than London, how the shops were more quirky, how the sea air reminded me of those seaside holidays when I was little. I most definitely wouldn't mention to him (probably ever) how secretly I'd like to be a Brighton hippy; wear gigantic tie-dye trousers with incense sticks propped up in the pockets, become truly vegan and drink only peppermint tea. 

I'd decided that morning, to keep my rose-tinted spectacles very firmly on as I looked back to my childhood memories of Bognor Regis. The place itself was really quite unremarkable- and where we'd stayed - just a small village in West Sussex. The bungalow was just another home, the quiet beach like many others. It was my memories that were special, created during those precious times when my family was still a family, and we were all in love with each other. I felt the desperate need to keep those memories safe. I was afraid that if I went back, they'd be whitewashed over with unforgiving, dull tones of reality. I'd promised myself at eight O'clock that very morning as I’d placed my toothbrush back in its pot, to write a piece and keep them forever. 

The bell attached to the door of the shop rang rudely, and I turned to see Liam walk out carrying a large plastic bag, looking pleased with himself. 

"Ooh. What’d ya get?" I asked him eagerly, handing him back his half-drunk coffee with lipstick marks around the rim.

"Well, couldn’t really decide between this and The Smiths, 'Hatful of Hollow'... But eventually I chose Bob Dylan." He said, reaching into the bag and pulling out the poster he'd chosen and holding it up for me to see. "Thought it'd look great framed on the wall at home."

I don't know if you believe in signs, or meant-to-be's. I do. Liam doesn't. So I didn't say anything to him as he held it up proudly, I just smiled.

"It's brilliant." I said. "Just brilliant."

A Mancunian love affair

 

I stepped onto the bus. It had taken me a few minutes to remember which number I needed to get to reach Fallowfield, even though I used to travel this route, twice a day for three years. I caught sight of the 142 – yes – that’s the one – and ran furiously to get to it just as the bus pulled out to leave. The driver caught my eye through the reflections on the windscreen, slowed to a stop, and the doors hissed open, almost in annoyance. 

“How much to Fallowfield and back, please?” I asked him, slightly breathless.

“That’d be £3.20 please, love.” 

He had a kind face, and his strong Manchester accent took me aback slightly, it was far friendlier than the snobby London accent I was so used to hearing in Mayfair. There had been a time when I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid, and perhaps would have even spoken with a slight Northern twang myself. It sounded so familiar, and I realised I’d missed it. I fumbled in my pockets for some small change, and handed it to him, before crawling to a window seat and cringing at how out of touch I was, that I couldn’t even remember the return fare on a Stagecoach bus.

The minute Liam and I had arrived at Manchester Piccadilly station for a long weekend with friends, I had felt like I’d come back home. The many memories of standing on Platform 5, malnourished from too many university pasta dinners, waiting for the London Euston train via Milton Keynes Central to arrive to take me home for a long weekend with Mum, quickly came back to me.  I gripped Liam’s hand as we walked along the platform, half listening as he talked about which of our usual haunts we would head to for lunch, and then my mind wandered to the last time we’d been here in Manchester together. It had been in the station. He’d left with his huge rucksack on the train for three months to travel around Peru. I remembered how I had run alongside the train as he’d smiled and waved from the window.  I thought that if I ran fast enough I could delay the last moment I would see him, and it was only when his train became a dot along the tracks, amongst the sky rise buildings and overhead wires, that I had let myself cry. 

As my bus bumped and hissed its way to the junction, I opened up my handbag and searched for something like a mirror. Pulling my phone out, I used the reflection to apply a slick of pink lipstick.  I was meeting Liam in Platt Fields Park in Fallowfield; it was where we’d visited many a fairground, firework display and sat together amongst the long grass and frazzled in those rare moments when Manchester had seen the sun. In the hot stuffy bus, I squinted at my reflection in the dark black screen.  I didn’t think I looked too much older than when I’d first met him in our first year university halls, all fresh-faced and nineteen. 

We’d pulled out of the station and were trundling down Portland Street, passing Kro Bar, where I’d always treat myself to the best marshmallow hot chocolate or the wedges with chilli and sour cream dip.  As we passed China Town, I recalled  the day I spent there with my friend Helen, at Chinese New Year. We’d brought paper dragons, jade trinkets, and clapped at the street performers. The rickety bench just on my left was where we linked arms and huddled together, picking at a punnet of chips.

The bus took a sharp turn around the corner at the Palace Theatre, and we passed the Cornerhouse Cinema, where Liam had taken me to see ‘Che Part One’ after I’d had an operation a few years back. I’d spend the whole time giggling, all drowsy and dosed up on strong painkillers. Trying to focus on the subtitles, I eventually fell into a light Tramadol invoked sleep; having psychedelic dreams involving jungles and firearms.

We pulled into a bus stop. A couple of people got on, flashing their paper passes at the driver before they found themselves a seat. No one seemed rushed, no one pushed or tripped up on other peoples feet. The guy to my right had scruffy trainers on and was reading a large text book, which had been highlighted and underlined in many different colours. I’d put money on him being a student and getting off at the next stop. 

The bus drove past our rival university, Manchester Metropolitan. You could guarantee the Man Met students would always dress more fabulous than the typical University of Manchester student. Hair tied up in coloured scarves, bright red lipsticks and angular cut fringes. I’d always slightly envied them for having chosen more creative degrees and would often wander into their student union to look all the art materials up for sale in the union shop, scribble my name with the felt tip pens and wish I could find a purpose in my degree for a A3 Scrapbook or a scalpel and cutting mat.   

In a moment, the students were gone, replaced with cafes and shabby newsagents, just before they too whizzed past me and I saw my university coming into sight. We pulled up and stopped outside the grand arches I had posed under with my family for photographs the day of my graduation, and I remembered the beautiful bunch of peonies and lisianthas Mum had given me. We passed where I’d stumbled up the middle of the road after the Summer Ball in my first year, at five in the morning; my face painted with butterflies and singing Bon Jovi tunes at the top of my voice, my best friend Natalie under one arm – a squished cheesy naan bread under the other. 

We drove up the curry mile- Rusholme- the only place in Manchester that you can guarantee the shops will have changed owners and signs since the last time you went that way. I smelt the usual waft of spices fly in through the window, and my tummy growled in appreciation. At first glance, it looked more run down than usual, but upon a closer look, I saw the glitzy saris in the shop windows, Indian gold bangles draped across velvet and people laughing over baklava and a shisha pipe in the cafes. I laughed as I remembered the 3am stop offs after boozy nights out for a curry in Al Nawaz; the only curry house on the mile which has goldfish in tanks swimming under a glass floor. 

As we neared Platt Fields, I stood up and pressed the red button waiting for it to ding! loudly. The bus pulled up and I hopped off, thanking the driver, who smiled and nodded at me. How personal. How different from London. I was only a couple of miles from the city centre, but it was quiet, with only a few cars passing on the road to my right. Crossing the road, I walked into the park through the the big iron gates, taking in the open space, and the hot sunshine beating down on my head. There was a little park bench up the way. I remembered I used to stretch my legs on it when I had that burst of enthusiasm in my first year to go running after I'd got a little pot belly from too many beers. I'd brought some trainers from JJB Sport especially, but unfortunately my burst of enthusiasm had only lasted a few weeks, and the trainers are still in a box under my bed somewhere. 

I lay down on the bench, pulled my knees up, and rested my head on my suitcase. It was comfy. I listened to the sounds around me, zoning out a little; the birds chirping, the rustle of trees and the occasional jogger who breathlessly passed me by. Children were squealing somewhere in the distance, but it didn’t bother me as it usually did. For a moment I could pretend I still lived here. In the city I loved, where I’d built up so many happy memories. I closed my eyes, until I heard a familiar low wolf-whistle coming from behind me. Squinting into the sun, I peered over my suitcase, to see Liam walking up the path towards me, grinning, looking almost exactly the same as when I first met him, those five years ago, just 100 metres down the road.

Praha: 2 - Braving cold and cobbles

I was told that Prague would be cold. That it would be far colder than London - even London in the middle of January - I was told to expect something like -3 or -4 degrees Celsius. (That's very chilly for a Londoner.) But even after popping on two more layers at the airport, I realised I wasn't prepared enough for the biting wind that hit my face as I wheeled my suitcase out of the sliding doors at Prague airport. Flecks of snow drifted about the air, barely enough to even call it snowing, and my cheeks flamed a pretty shade of pink.

Prague airport is a small airport, and looked fairly deserted to me. There were only the last few stragglers of my flight who remained drifting about the Terminal - those few who had been lured in by the few small shops full to the brim of duty free perfume, cigarettes and alcohol, just before the baggage collection. This meant that the odd bag remained circulating around and around the baggage carousel looking for it's owner. 

Among the stragglers were two girls around about my age - who were loaded with duty free Benson & Hedges and a bottle of Sailor Jerry spiced rum. They looked far too bright-eyed and fabulous to have got up at 5:00am that morning, and were laughing to each other, waving their arms expressively as they talked. I was less a straggler; more half asleep. I imagined the state I must have looked; hair all frizzy on one side from my thirty minute nap, sleepy baggy eyes framed (or rather, hidden) by my 'comfortable glasses', rather than my sophisticated Prada ones.

I took in my surroundings for a moment. The large, familiar yellow and red M sign stood out to my left, calling my name, willing me to take stock of the situation over a Chicken McNugget Meal instead of standing aimlessly in the main hall of the terminal. It was slightly disorientating that all signs were in Czech (not that I was expecting anything else), but English was kindly written underneath in an italic font, coming to the rescue of lost tourists such as myself.

Right. I need a bus. A bus to the centre.

I noticed that the two girls I'd seen earlier had made their way to what I guessed was a little travel kiosk. It had photos of a bus, a train and a tram pasted on the wall behind the desk.

Aha, pictures - the universal language.  

They looked confident enough with where they were going, so I followed them over to the kiosk and joined the queue. I clutched my entire weekend's spending money which was still stored in the Post Office envelope it had arrived in, as I had no idea how much it might cost. The notes were in pretty colours and it felt like Monopoly money as they were all in hundreds and thousands. I thought about how I was going to come across as polite, whilst unable even to try and make the effort to speak Czech to the assistants selling tickets behind the counter.

I thought I would go and speak to the two girls, partly because I had been following them for the last fifteen minutes (I didn't want them to think I was completely weird), but mainly because I still had no idea which bus stop I needed to stand at. I approached them, teeth chattering.

"Hi, I'm really sorry, is this the right stop for the city centre? I'm on my own, and I've just bought this ticket - and I'm hoping it's the right one..." I rolled my eyes and laughed.

"Yeah, think this is the stop. We're going there too. We've been told we gotta get the 119 bus... You can tag along with us if y'like?" Said the smaller of the two girls.

She was tiny, with long dark hair, shaved up behind her ear on one side, and had a pretty diamond stud in her nose. I noticed she was wearing the black Doctor Marten boots I'd wanted for Christmas. Her friend, who was slightly taller, had cropped, blonde curly hair, and she nodded and smiled at me. If I hadn't have already guessed from their accents, they told me they were Aussies, living in London for the moment.  I've always found Aussies to be generally chatty and friendly - and these two were no exception.

We piled onto the bus together stamping our feet to keep warm, and laughing about how we'd been told off by the bus driver for not placing our ticket in the machine correctly. We chatted about where in London we lived, the best markets to go to, the quirky pubs which we'd discovered down the back streets of London, and then why we were in Prague. I told them I was here because it was Graeme's 30th birthday - my mate from Manchester - a born and bred Glaswegian Scotsman - and proud of it. There are eight of us in total, I explained; four gay guys and four girls - sharing an apartment which overlooked the river. They were booked into a hostel just outside the centre of Prague - the best way to meet new people - they'd said. They were staying for the weekend, just the two of them and a bottle of Sailor Jerry spiced rum. 

Throughout the twenty-minute bus ride, we passed enormous warehouses and open fields - not of green, but of hard brown soil frozen on the ground. Large billboards loomed to the side of the road, advertising Czech beers such as Staropramen and Pilsner. The buildings were high rise flats of a simple and practical design. It was rather bleak, but then, most airport surroundings are. Finally we reached the end of the line, where I was to jump onto the Metro at Dejvická. I parted ways with the two Aussies, wishing them a lovely time in Prague, and we left with promises of meeting up again when we got back to London. As they walked off chatting together, I wondered if we would. I sailed through the tunnels of the Metro, following the crowds and navigating my way through (thankfully) only one line change, before I was to reach Karlovo náměstí station; where Graeme would be waiting.

Prague Metro Map

Four months of living in London, and it's only very recently that I can say that I've got the hang of using the London Underground system. I know to stand to the right of the escalators, I know to wait until people have got off the train, before getting on, I know that the tubes are pretty much useless on a weekend, and I also know, it is incredibly easy to go the wrong way up the line.

But I can hold my hand on my heart, and say honestly, that I was incredible at navigating the Czech Underground (or the Metro, as it's really called). Unlike London, they have only three coloured lines (rather than eleven), they do not name them after national places, people or events (such as the Hammersmith and City, Victoria or Jubilee lines), but instead name them simply A, B and C (genius, if you ask me), and far easier to navigate, if you don't speak Czech! 

The hardest part of my journey, was choosing which escalator to go up once I'd reached Karlovo náměstí station- to make sure I came out by the river. In the end I just chose one, and as I ascended onto the street, I understood why everyone had called Prague simply beautiful.

It was as if I had walked back in time. Narrow streets, with characteristic cobbles, ran in between  elaborately designed buildings, most of them, probably six stories high. No expense had been spared over the stone work; with statues of angels, saints and virgins looking down on the street below from their perches on the windowsills high above me. The walls had been painted in various pastel colours, warm and tasteful, as if to brighten up such a freezing cold city. Some of the walls even had gothic, geometric designs painted upon them, to look like expensive tiles. 

The wind whipped across the river, which was lined with tall cast iron lamps which could have come straight out of C. S Lewis' Narnia. I read somewhere, that Prague was a city untouched by the bombing of the world wars. I loved this fact, and could imagine people strolling up the river, taking trips on boats as horse-drawn carriages pulled by, because the city must have looked just the same now, as it had a hundred years ago.

Graffiti sprawled up the one of the walls of the subway, and drew me back into this century with a bang. It was quiet on the pavements in this part of town, although the beeps and shuffles of the traffic along the river kept the wind from whistling too loudly.

I took a right turn to walk alongside the river, ensuring I  didn't veer too residential, and 3walked far enough along to reach the gothic Charles Bridge, where Graeme would be waiting.

I saw him walking briskly across the zebra crossing, cars whizzing past him, front and back. As usual he had his head held high, his shoulders back, striding with purpose and just a little bounce in his step. He could hardly believe his eyes as he saw my determined little form dragging my suitcase proudly over the cobbles waving frantically, because he promptly dropped his cigarette on the floor, flung his arms wide open to hug me, and yelled in his thick, Glaswegian drawl, "Betty!"