(Black) Lace Anniversary.


Yesterday was a day of personal significance for two reasons: (1) it was thirteen years since I stumbled across an article in the Telegraph about a racist festival in Padstow whose name blew my mind, and (2) it marked the thirteenth anniversary of my first date with my wife.

(Above) Headline from Daily Telegraph (25.02.05). (Below) a photo of the festival - called Darkie Days - taken from the same article.



There’s no debate over which occasion was most important to me; you need only note how rarely I’ve blacked up since 25th February 2005 to have your answer. That’s not to say that being with my wife for three years past a decade isn’t cause to celebrate; Jolson jazz-handed stance or no Jolson jazz-handed stance.

It’s hard to judge whether it seems that long ago or not; in many ways it feels longer, though in a positive sense. I’m of no doubt my life got better the moment we got together; she’s enriched me in a way that’s never ceased in all this time and I'm sure never will. She gives me faith in what I do and makes me laugh more than anyone on the planet (at time of going to press).

Thirteen years is strange anniversary to celebrate, though the phrase “unlucky for some” is null and void in this instance. There’s no doubt I’m very fortunate. Now forgive me while I find my boot polish.

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